So he believed.
What are you?
The question had come during the battle of Heliosa. The heaviest fighting on Nocturne had been at the gates of Hesiod. The contingent of the traitor Nihilan’s forces that had besieged Heliosa was little more than a diversion from a diversion, but the kroot and other mercenaries fought there as savagely as anywhere else on the planet. Mulcebar had his squads fight as if to lose Heliosa would be to lose Nocturne. Honour, loyalty and love of the home world demanded nothing less. And so, for the first time in three decades, Ha’garen and Ba’birin were in combat at each other’s side.
Their synchrony had once been such that they had fought like a single machine. Now that a large part of Ha’garen was machine, the unity was lost. Ha’garen could no longer see Ba’birin’s flourishes as anything other than excessive. They were a pointless waste of energy, a deployment of technique for technique’s sake. He saw no need to cater to them, and could not fathom why he once had. They brought terrible wrath down on the enemy, and butchered the foe in numbers that made hills of corpses, but the music of their joint actions was discordant. They fought well because they were Salamanders. They no longer fought well together.
When Nihilan’s terrible weapon blasted Nocturne to the core, the earth heaved and danced, and walls hurled themselves to the ground. The enemy streamed through overwhelmed void shields and into the city. The savages and xenos filth wasted no time in descending upon the civilian population. It was as if they knew they were bound to be defeated, and had decided to enjoy a premature sack of Heliosa rather than face a futile struggle against the unwavering strength of the Salamanders. There was no strategy. There was only the barbaric impulse to cause as much harm as possible before being stopped.
A ten-metre breach in the wall opened at the position held by Ha’garen and Ba’birin’s squad. Ba’birin and three other battle-brothers fell with the stone and rockrete. Rubble pounded the Salamanders. Beneath Ha’garen’s feet, the wall still stood. He looked down and saw his brothers shrugging off the wreckage. They were monuments, animated statues rising from ruins to defy a hostile fate. They were not to be stopped.
Nor were their enemies, who traded indomitable strength for the power of the swarm. Kroot and human stormed into a civilian compound fifty metres back from the wall. The people of Heliosa had the innate strength and resilience of all Nocturneans, and they were armed, but they were no match for the military savagery that came at them. Ha’garen saw Ba’birin lead his group of Salamanders to the defence of the populace. He took in the relative distances between the civilians, invaders and Space Marines. The outcome was obvious. The Salamanders would annihilate the foe, but be too late to prevent the slaughter of the civilians. A few paces to his right there was a heavy bolter turret. Its gunner was dead, but the weapon was still functional. Ha’garen manned it, even as Ba’birin’s voice came in over his comm-bead.
‘Brother,’ Ba’birin said, ‘we could use your assistance.’
Two choices now. The first was whether to join the ground-level combat or hold his position, and it was really no choice at all. To give up any tactical advantage was irrational in the extreme. The second choice was where to aim the turret: turn it to face the interior of the redoubt and provide assisting fire, or train it on the larger body of the enemy still surging towards the breach.
Again, there was really no choice.
Ha’garen opened fire. The turret’s chug-chug-chug was the pounding rhythm of Vulkan’s hammer, the perfect regularity of machined death blasting xenos and heretic mercenaries to bloody pulp.
‘Ha’garen?’ Ba’birin voxed.
‘I am doing what I must, brother,’ Ha’garen responded. And that was not concentrating on a specific skirmish whose outcome would not be affected by any action on his part. He was laying waste to the foe, damaging his war-making capacity by culling his numbers and slowing his advance. The invaders charged forwards in their hundreds. There were far more than Ha’garen could hope to kill, but they were not infinite. As the turret’s mass-reactive shells exploded flesh and bone, punching bursts of dirt and blood skywards, the assault lost strength and momentum. Ha’garen made a difference.
But not the right one, as far as Ba’birin was concerned. It was the first time Ha’garen had knowingly acted against the wishes of his brother. They had not been in concert; they had been at cross purposes. Ha’garen’s worst sin, it appeared, was a distorted sense of priorities. He learned this after the battle, after the war. Heliosa was secure, and the slow staunching of Nocturne’s wounds had begun. It was then, while Ha’garen was salvaging usable weaponry from the field, that Ba’birin confronted him.
‘You abandoned us,’ Ba’birin said without preamble.
‘I made a decision based on tactical necessities.’
‘The people of Nocturne are our charges.’
It seemed to Ha’garen that his battle-brother was speaking from an impulse of sentiment, not reason. ‘Our duty was the successful prosecution of the war. I followed my duty.’
And then the question came. Ba’birin shook his head. ‘What are you?’ he said, and walked away.
Puzzled, Ha’garen had watched the other Salamander as he receded through smoking metal and charred rubble, then turned back to his work. The question was an odd one, but he did not feel its full weight just then. What he felt was the rift with Ba’birin. To the extent that he still experienced emotions at all, the loss of that comradeship gnawed at him, and would continue to do so in the days and months that followed. It was the news about Argos that turned the question into a refrain that no force of reason or passage of time could exorcise. Argos’s mind had been infected by an enemy attack, turning him from his true course, making him act against his brothers. The Forge Master had realised what was happening and managed to excise the infection, but not before causing considerable damage. The event disturbed Ha’garen. That Argos, one of the mightiest of the Chapter’s Techmarines, could be attacked at such a fundamental level was more than a warning against complacency. Ha’garen was engaged on a path that meant a metamorphosis of body and of self. If the greatest of his kind was vulnerable, then so was he, and how was he to monitor his journey? How was he to know if his transformation took him down deviant paths?
What are you? The question did not have the easy answer it should.
He reached the enginarium. This would be his field in the battle ahead. He would be guardian of the Verdict of the Anvil, preserving its spirit and maintaining its body as the ship brought the fury of Vulkan down on the long-awaited foe. Surrounded by machines, immense beasts of metal flesh and plasma heart, he was among kin. Litanies of battle, sanctity and calm sprang to his lips. He began his communion with his gargantuan charge, preparing the ship for the fight. Tech crew and servitors flew to the tasks he assigned them, and the cavernous space echoed with the thrum and clatter of a collective action as perfectly timed and choreographed as it was precise. The question’s refrain faded into the background of Ha’garen’s consciousness as he became one with the Verdict.
The mechanistic dance of war began.
On the main tacticarium screen, Mulcebar watched the enemy transition into the materium. The ork warlord was coming in strong. The massive kill kroozer was escorted by a cluster of attack and ram ships. Mulcebar was looking at a storm system of brute aggression. The squadron was an expression of greenskin nature. The ships were ramshackle, blunt in form and function, and dangerous in the extreme. The very fact that, against all logic, they did not spontaneously explode was itself a sign that to underestimate the orks would be suicidal.
The Verdict of the Anvil was massively outnumbered. It was alone.
It was more than strong enough. The predator waited, silent, running dark, for the orks to come within range.
‘Nova cannon powering up,’ Phanes reported.
‘Thank you, helmsmaster,’ Mulcebar answered. He would str
ike the ork kroozer a death blow, then close in to exterminate surviving ships. He planned to avoid close-quarters fighting. The decision was a pragmatic one. A commander who rushed in to grapple with the orks was playing the greenskins’ game, and was a fool. There was nothing heroic in throwing away the lives of warriors and crew. This ork, through the schemes of his underlings, had already proven himself the most dangerous of his kind Mulcebar had ever heard of, barring the beast of Armageddon. But he would shortly be ash. Mulcebar eyed the screens, waiting for the nova cannon to be fully charged, and for the target to be acquired. As yet, the ork squadron showed no sign of being aware of the Verdict of the Anvil’s presence.
‘Target within range,’ the gunnery officer called out.
And the cannon was ready. Mulcebar opened his mouth to give the order.
Then the astropathic choir sang, and changed everything.
The music of the gears had been disrupted. The hymns of the engines were unsung. The captain had summoned him to the bridge. When he arrived, Ha’garen saw that Ba’birin and all the other squad leaders had been assembled too. A second full briefing, so soon after the last, and a critical action aborted. The Techmarine did not like the portents.
Mulcebar’s expression also boded ill. It was thunderous with frustration and distaste. ‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘I have received a communication whose urgency is matched only by its timeliness.’ He spat the last word. Ha’garen had never seen his captain in a rage. This came close.
Mulcebar paused for a moment before continuing. When he spoke again, his tone was a bit more phlegmatic, as if he recognised the need for what he was going to say, bitterly though he might resent it. ‘The message is from the Stormseer of the White Scars. We cannot destroy our foe’s ship. We must board it.’ He grimaced, as if his next words left a sour taste in his mouth even before being spoken. ‘We must board it and extract an eldar prisoner.’
There was a moment of silence. Ha’garen had seen a familiar light blaze up in Ba’birin’s eyes at the mention of a boarding action, and his battle-brother would not be alone, he knew, in relishing the idea of taking the battle to the orks on a more personal level. But the mission the captain had just described was obscene.
‘Extract...?’ Neleus began.
‘Alive,’ Mulcebar clarified.
‘In Vulkan’s name,’ Ba’birin said softly. ‘Captain, why?’
‘Our brothers in the Raven Guard have been encountering orks that are very large and aggressive. Unnaturally so, as if anything about the greenskins can be said to be natural. The strength they are demonstrating is of great concern, however.’
‘What does this have to do with our rescuing an eldar?’ Neleus asked.
‘He is a seer and he knows why this is happening,’ Mulcebar answered. ‘Our duty, as distasteful as it might be, is clear. We must board the ork ship, find the eldar, and extract him.’ His voice turned grim with menace. ‘We will then take what we need to know from him.’
It had been a long time since Ha’garen had experienced anything that he would have described as visceral. He did so now. The racial memory of millennia of slaver raids on the people of Nocturne rose in his blood. It demanded satisfaction. That Nocturne was a stalking ground for the dark eldar and not their less hedonistic kin was, for every Salamander, a distinction without a difference. The mission was perverse. Its irony had a tactile cruelty.
‘The boarding party will consist of two tactical squads,’ Mulcebar said, ‘led by Sergeants Ba’birin and Neleus.’ He turned to Ha’garen. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘your skills will be especially needed. We do not know anything about the layout of the ship, much less where the prisoners might be held. Learn everything you can. Guide your brothers.’
Ha’garen lowered his head. ‘In Vulkan’s name,’ he said, ‘and with his aid, I will complete this task.’ When he looked up, he noticed the look on Ba’birin’s face. The other Salamander’s lack of expression was eloquent.
The predator had been preparing itself for war. It still was, but for a very different sort. The engines powered up, and the walls of stone and steel vibrated with their gathering strength. The Verdict of the Anvil was going to plunge into the ork maelstrom. It would be hunting hard prey.
In the solitorium, Ba’birin also prepared for war. He was engaged in a private communion with his primarch before joining his brothers for the communal prayer. His weapons had been cleaned, loaded and anointed. They and his armour, and the priest who would dress him in his raiment of war, awaited him in the next chamber. Here, only Akakios, his brander-priest, waited on him. Clad in a loin-cloth, Ba’birin knelt over a fire pit. The heat from the incandescent coals washed over him. He opened his flesh and soul to the purifying sear of the forge, the strengthening pain of the anvil. He thought about the mission, and made himself confront all the elements of it that rankled. He focused most of all on the rescue of the eldar prisoner. He brought all of his revulsion and hatred for that race to the surface, and gave himself over to a spasm of absolute fury. He gave his anger to the fire, so that the forge burned the extraneous emotions away, leaving only duty. When he felt his rage retreat before a calm that was no less implacable, no less determined, he rose and turned to face Akakios.
‘I am ready,’ he told the priest.
Akakios stepped forwards. The serf’s narrow, ascetic face was a lined map of age and piety. He placed the end of his branding rod in the fire pit, heating it to a red glow. Then he brought it up to Ba’birin’s chest. To a topography of victories and pledges, he added the brand of another holy promise. Ba’birin stood motionless as he accepted the pain. It was the symbol of duty and its reminder. It was the mark of this mission, binding his life to its completion. The calm he had achieved absorbed the pain and honoured it. Cleansed, steeled, determined, he strode out of the chamber to don his armour.
When he emerged from the solitorium, he found Neleus waiting for him, helm under his arm. ‘Brother-sergeant,’ he said, nodding in greeting.
‘Brother-sergeant,’ Ba’birin returned. ‘Shall we?’ He began to walk down the hallway, heading for the ramps that would take them down to the torpedo deck.
‘Would you indulge my curiosity for a moment?’ Neleus asked.
Ba’birin paused, his precious calm fraying ever so slightly. ‘Of course,’ he answered, though an intuition told him that he should not be eager to hear Neleus’s question.
‘You have your doubts about Techmarine Ha’garen’s role in this mission, don’t you?’
Ba’birin gave a soft, rueful laugh at his own expense. In his meditation of purging, he had concentrated so completely on the eldar that he had avoided confronting his other source of disquiet. And now here was Neleus, the unknowing tool of fate, to punish him for his dishonesty. Ba’birin accepted his chastisement as his due. ‘Was I that obvious?’ he asked.
‘Hardly,’ Neleus said, sounding amused as well as concerned. ‘You didn’t react at all.’
‘And that was, in itself, a reaction.’
‘Given the former cohesion of your fighting unit, yes.’
‘You think I don’t trust Brother Ha’garen.’
‘So it would appear.’
‘And so it is,’ Ba’birin admitted. ‘I do not.’
‘You blame his conversion to Techmarine?’
‘I do.’ Ba’birin began walking again, slowly. ‘I believe that he has divided loyalties. I believe that he is finding it difficult to reconcile the Cult Mechanicus and the Promethean Creed. And so I believe that his judgement is suspect.’
Neleus frowned. ‘Forgive me, brother, but you speak as if Techmarines were unknown in our Chapter.’
‘I am not speaking in general. I have the most profound...’
‘... trust?’ Neleus put in.
‘Respect,’ Ba’birin finished, ‘for our three Masters of the Forge. But I can see the difference between Ha’garen as he
was and as he now is, and some of his decisions are unsound.’
‘If you are referring to what happened at Heliosa, his actions were entirely justifiable from a tactical perspective.’
‘That they were justifiable doesn’t make them right.’
Neleus shrugged but said nothing, and they walked on in silence for a minute. Ba’birin wasn’t sure whether to read agreement or dissent on Neleus’s part. The other sergeant was one of the most even-tempered souls Ba’birin had ever encountered. Though his ferocity in battle was a sight to behold, and he did not admit even to the mere existence of the word ‘retreat,’ his attitude towards war was very different from Ba’birin’s. The distinction lay, Ba’birin thought, in the fact that where he saw war as the destruction of enemies, Neleus saw instead the defence of the Imperium, of their home world, and of the innocent. Ba’birin exulted in the furnace of conflict, and for this he made no apologies, but he respected Neleus’s more measured philosophy. It was often a valuable corrective when his own enthusiasms threatened to get the better of him. And he had no quarrel with Neleus’s sense of priority. In the end, Ba’birin too fought to preserve, no matter how enthusiastically he sought the fight. So he was surprised that Neleus showed any sympathy at all for Ha’garen’s choice at Heliosa.
Neleus did not speak again until they had almost reached the torpedo deck. ‘Are you really doubting his loyalty? Because if you are, then you must, in good conscience, warn the captain and the Chaplain.’
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