Ferrus Manus crossed his arms and said, ‘And what question would that be?’
Fulgrim smiled. ‘Why are they here?’
‘You wish to get into a philosophical debate?’ snapped Ferrus Manus. ‘Then speak to the iterators, I’m sure they can furnish you with a better, less direct, answer than I.’
Fulgrim turned to address the warriors of the two Legions and said, ‘Ask yourselves this then. Knowing that a powerful fleet of warships is hunting you and seeks your destruction, why would you not simply leave? Why would you not move on to somewhere safer?’
‘I do not know, brother,’ said Ferrus Manus. ‘Why?’
Julius felt his primarch’s gaze upon him and the weight of expectation crushed him to his seat. If the intellect of a primarch could not answer this question, what chance did he have?
He looked into Fulgrim’s eyes, seeing his lord’s faith, and the answer was suddenly clear.
Julius stood and said, ‘Because they can’t. They’re trapped in this system.’
‘Trapped?’ asked Gabriel Santor from across the chamber. ‘Trapped how?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Julius. ‘Perhaps they have no Navigator.’
‘No,’ said Fulgrim, ‘that’s not it. If they were without a Navigator then the 52nd Expedition would have caught them long ago. It’s something else. What?’
Julius watched as the officers of both Legions contemplated the question, sure that his primarch already knew the answer.
Even as the answer came to him, Gabriel Santor stood and said, ‘Fuel. They need fuel for their fleet.’
Though Julius knew it was foolish, he felt a stab of jealousy at being denied the chance to answer his primarch and glared angrily at the weathered face of Iron Hand’s first captain.
‘Exactly!’ said Fulgrim. ‘Fuel. A fleet the size of the Diasporex must consume a phenomenal amount of energy every day, and to make a jump of any distance they will need a great deal of it. The fleet masters of this sector’s compliant worlds do not report any significant losses of tankers or convoys, so we must assume the Diasporex are getting their fuel from another source.’
‘The Carollis Star,’ said Julius. ‘They must have solar collectors hidden somewhere in the sun’s corona. They’re waiting to gather enough fuel before moving on.’
Fulgrim turned back to the centre of the chamber and said, ‘That is how we will bring the Diasporex to battle, by discovering these collectors and threatening them. We will draw our enemies to a battle of our choosing and then we will destroy them.’
LATER, AFTER THE war council had disbanded, Fulgrim and Ferrus Manus retired to the lord of the Emperor’s Children’s private staterooms aboard the Pride of the Emperor. Fulgrim’s chambers were the envy of Terra’s master of antiquities; every wall hung with elegantly framed pictures of vibrant alien landscapes or extraordinary picts of the Astartes and mortals of the Crusade.
Antechambers filled with marble busts and the spoils of war radiated from the central stateroom, and everywhere the eye fell, it alighted on a work of unimaginable artistic beauty. Only the far end of the room was bare of ornamentation, the space filled with part carved blocks of marble, and easels of unfinished artwork.
Fulgrim reclined on a chaise longue, stripped out of his armour and dressed in a simple toga of cream and purple. He drank wine from a crystal goblet and rested his hand on a table upon which lay the silver hiked sword he had taken from the Laer temple. The sword was a truly magnificent weapon, hardly the equal of Fireblade, but exquisite nonetheless. Its balance was flawless, as though it had been designed for his hand alone, and its keen edge had the power to cut through Astartes plate with ease.
The purple gem at the pommel was of crude workmanship, but had a certain primitive charm to it that was quite at odds with the quality of the blade and hilt. Perhaps he would replace the gem with something more appropriate.
Even as the thought arose he dismissed it, feeling suddenly as though such an exchange would be the basest act of vandalism. With a shake of his head, Fulgrim put the sword from his mind and ran a hand through his unbound white hair. Ferrus Manus paced the room like a caged lion, and though scout ships were even now hunting the Diasporex fuel collectors, he still chafed at this enforced inaction.
‘Oh, sit down, Ferrus,’ said Fulgrim. ‘You will wear a groove in the marble. Take some wine.’
‘Sometimes, Fulgrim, I swear this isn’t a ship of war anymore, it’s a flying gallery,’ said Ferrus Manus, examining the works hung on the walls. ‘Although, these picts are good; who took them?’
‘An imagist named Euphrati Keeler. I’m told she travels with the 63rd Expedition.’
‘She has a fine eye,’ noted Ferrus. ‘These are good picts.’
‘Yes,’ said Fulgrim. ‘I suspect that her name will be known throughout the expedition fleets soon.’
‘Although I’m not sure about these paintings,’ said Ferrus, pointing at a series of abstract acrylics of riotous colour and passionate brushstrokes.
‘You have no appreciation of the finer things, my brother,’ sighed Fulgrim. ‘Those are works by Serena d’Angelus. Noble families of Terra would pay a small fortune to own such a piece.’
‘Really?’ said Ferrus, tilting his head to one side. ‘What are they supposed to be?’
‘They are…’ began Fulgrim, struggling to put into words the sensations and emotions evoked by the colours and shapes within the picture. He looked closely at the picture and smiled.
‘They are recreations of reality formed according to the artist’s metaphysical value judgments,’ he said, the words leaping unbidden to his lips. ‘An artist recreates those aspects of reality that represent the fundamental truth of man’s nature. To understand that is to understand the truth of the galaxy. Mistress d’Angelus is aboard The Pride of the Emperor, I should introduce you to her.’
Ferrus grunted and asked, ‘Why do you insist on keeping such things around? They are a distraction from our duty to the Emperor and Horus.’
Fulgrim shook his head. ‘These works will be the Emperor’s Children’s lasting contribution to a compliant galaxy. Yes, there are planets yet to conquer and enemies yet to defeat, but what manner of galaxy will it be if there are none to appreciate what has been won? The Imperium will be a hollow place if it is to be denied art, poetry and music, and those with the wit to appreciate them. Art and beauty are as close to the divine as we find in this godless age. People should, in their daily lives, aspire to create art and beauty. That will be what the Imperium comes to stand for in time, and it will make us immortal.’
‘I still think it’s a distraction,’ said Ferrus Manus. ‘Not at all, Ferrus, for the foundations of the Imperium are art and science. Remove them or degrade them and the Imperium is no more. It is said that empire follows art and not vice versa as those of a more prosaic nature might suppose, and I would rather go without food or water for weeks than go without art.’
Ferrus looked unconvinced and pointed to the unfinished works that lay at the far end of the stateroom. ‘So what are these ones then? They’re not very good. What do they recreate?’
Fulgrim felt a flush of anger, but suppressed it before it could show.
‘I was indulging my creative side, but it is nothing serious,’ he said, a traitorous kernel within him seething at his handiwork being dismissed so lightly.
Ferrus Manus shrugged and sat on a tall wooden chair before pouring himself a chalice of wine from a silver amphora.
‘Ah, it’s good to be back amongst friends,’ said Ferrus Manus, raising his chalice.
‘That it is,’ agreed Fulgrim. ‘We see too little of one another now that the Emperor has returned to Terra.’
‘And taken the Fists with him,’ said Ferrus.
‘I had heard,’ said Fulgrim. ‘Has Dorn done something to offend our father?’
Ferrus Manus shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of, but who knows. Perhaps Horus was told.’
‘You should reall
y try to get into the habit of calling him the Warmaster now.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Ferrus, ‘but I still find it hard to think of Horus that way, you understand?’
‘I do, but it is the way of things, brother,’ pointed out Fulgrim. ‘Horus is Warmaster and we are his generals. Warmaster Horus commands and we obey.’
‘You’re right of course. He’s earned it, I’ll give him that,’ said Ferrus, raising his chalice. ‘No one has a greater tally of victories than the Luna Wolves. Horus deserves our loyalty.’
‘Spoken like a true follower,’ smiled Fulgrim, an inner voice goading him into baiting his brother primarch.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing,’ said Fulgrim with a shake of his hand. ‘Come on, didn’t you hope it would be you? Didn’t you wish with all your heart that the Emperor would name you his regent?’
Ferrus shook his head emphatically. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I can honestly say that I didn’t,’ said Ferrus, draining his chalice and pouring another. ‘Can you imagine the weight of the responsibility? We’ve come this far with the Emperor at our head, but I can’t even begin to conceive of the ambition that it must have taken to lead a crusade in conquest of the galaxy.’
‘So you don’t think Horus is up to it?’ asked Fulgrim.
‘Not at all,’ chuckled Ferrus, ‘and don’t put words in my mouth, brother. I won’t be branded a traitor for failing to support Horus. If any of us can be Warmaster, I’d expect it to be Horus.’
‘Not everyone thinks so.’
‘You’ve been talking to Perturabo and Angron haven’t you?’
‘Amongst others,’ admitted Fulgrim. ‘They communicated their… disquiet at the Emperor’s decision.’
‘No matter who was chosen, they would have raged against it,’ said Ferrus.
‘Probably,’ agreed Fulgrim, ‘but I am glad it was Horus. He will achieve great things.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Ferrus, draining his chalice.
He is a sycophant and easily swayed… said a voice in his head, and Fulgrim blinked at the force of it.
WITH THE END of the war on Laeran, the steady stream of wounded and dead to the apothecarion had slowed, leaving Fabius more time to devote to his researches. To ensure the secrecy his experiments demanded, he had relocated to a little-used research facility aboard the Andronius, a strike cruiser under the authority of Lord Commander Eidolon. Its facilities had been basic at first, but with Eidolon’s blessing, he had gathered a bewildering array of specialist equipment.
Eidolon himself had escorted him to the facility, marching along the length of the Gallery of Swords to the forward starboard apothecarion, its brushed steel walls gleaming and sterile. Without pause, Eidolon had led him through the circular hub of the main laboratory and along a tiled corridor to a gilded vestibule where two corridors branched left and right. The wall before them was blank, though there were indications that there was soon to be something placed upon it, a mosaic or bas-relief.
‘Why are we here?’ Fabius had asked.
‘You will see,’ said Eidolon, reaching out to press a portion of the wall, whereupon it had arced upwards to reveal a glowing passageway and a spiral staircase. They had descended into a research facility: surgical tables covered with white sheets and incubation tanks lying dormant and empty.
‘This is where you will work,’ declared Eidolon. ‘The primarch has placed a heavy burden on you, Apothecary, and you will not fail.’
‘I will not,’ agreed Fabius. ‘But tell me, lord commander, why do you take such a personal interest in my labours?’
Eidolon’s eyes had narrowed and he had fixed Fabius with a baleful glare. ‘I am to take the Proudheart to the Satyr Lanxus Belt on a “peacekeeping” mission.’
‘An inglorious, but necessary duty to ensure that the Imperial governors are maintaining the lawful rule of the Emperor,’ said Fabius, though he had known full well that Eidolon would not see it that way.
‘It is shameful!’ snapped Eidolon. ‘It is a waste of my skill and courage that I should be sent away from the fleet like this.’
‘Perhaps, but what is it you require of me?’ asked Fabius. ‘You did not escort me here personally without reason.’
‘Correct, Apothecary,’ said Eidolon, placing his hand on Fabius’s shoulder guard and leading him deeper into the secret laboratory. ‘Fulgrim has told me the scale of what you are to attempt, and though I do not approve of your methods, I will obey my primarch in all things.’
‘Even in undertaking peacekeeping missions?’ asked Fabius.
‘Even so,’ agreed Eidolon, ‘but I shall not be put in a position where I shall be made to suffer such indignities again. The work you are doing will enhance the physiology of the Astartes will it not?’
‘I believe so. I have only just begun to unlock the mystery of the gene-seed, but when I do… I will know all its secrets.’
‘Then upon my return to the fleet, you will begin with me,’ said Eidolon. ‘I shall become your greatest success, faster, stronger and more deadly than ever before, and I shall become the indispensable right hand of our primarch. Begin your work here, Apothecary and I shall see to it that you have everything you need brought to you.’
Fabius smiled at the memory, knowing that Eidolon would be pleased with his results when he rejoined the fleet once again.
He leaned over the corpse of an Astartes warrior, his surgical robes stained with the cadaver’s blood and his portable chirurgeon kit fitted to a servo harness at his waist. Clicking steel arms like metal spider legs reached over his shoulders, each bearing syringes, scalpels and bone saws that assisted with the dissection and organ removal. The stench of blood and cauterised flesh filled his nostrils, but such things did not repulse Fabius, for they spoke of thrilling discoveries and journeys into the unknown reaches of forbidden knowledge.
The cold lights of the apothecarion bleached the corpse’s skin and reflected from the incubation tanks he had set up to mature the altered gene-seed through chemical stimulation, genetic manipulation and controlled irradiation.
The warrior on the slab had been on the brink of death when he had been brought to the apothecarion, but he had died in bliss with his cerebral cortex exposed as Fabius had taken advantage of his imminent demise to work within its pulpy, grey mass in order to better understand the workings of a living Astartes brain. Inadvertently, Fabius had uncovered the means of linking the nervous system with the pleasure centres of the brain, thus rendering each painful incision a joyous sensation of unalloyed delight.
Quite what this discovery might mean to his researches, he wasn’t sure, but it was yet another fascinating nugget of information to store away for future experiments.
Thus far, Fabius had met with more failures than successes, though the balance was gradually shifting towards the positive now that the war on Laeran had provided him with a ready source of gene-seed upon which to experiment. The furnaces of the apothecarion had burned day and night disposing of the waste of his failed experiments, but these blows to progress were necessary for his and the Emperor’s Children’s pursuit of perfection.
He knew there were those in the Legion who would recoil from the work he was doing, but they were without vision and could not see the great things he would achieve, the necessary evils that must be endured to reach perfection.
By taking the next step in the Astartes evolutionary journey, Fulgrim’s Legion would become the greatest warriors of the Emperor’s armies, and the name of Fabius would be celebrated the length and breadth of the Imperium as the chief architect of this elevation.
Even now the apothecarion’s incubation tanks held the nascent fruits of his experiments, tiny, budding organs floating in a nutrient rich suspension. The tissue samples were from Astartes who had fallen on Laeran, and Fabius predicted that his enhancements should double their efficiency. Already he was growing a superior Ossmodula that would increase the
strength of the epiphiseal fusion and ossification of a warrior’s skeleton, resulting in bones that were virtually unbreakable. Next to the enhanced Ossmodula was a test organ that combined elements of Laer hormones, which if successful, would alter the fundamental nature of the Betcher’s gland, allowing an Astartes to replicate the sonic shriek of the Laer with devastating results.
Work on refining other organs was only just beginning, but Fabius had high hopes for his work on enhancing the Biscopea to stimulate muscle growth beyond the norms and produce warriors as strong as Dreadnoughts who could punch through the side of a tank with their bare fists. The multi-spectral eyes of the Laer had provided a great deal of information he hoped to incorporate into the experiments he had begun on the Occulobe. Scores of eyeballs were pinned like butterflies in the sterile cabinets beside him, chemical stimulants working to enhance the capabilities of the optic nerves.
With some modification, Fabius believed he could create visual organs that would function at peak efficiency in total darkness, bright light or stroboscopic conditions, rendering an Astartes effectively immune to being blinded or disorientated.
His first success sat behind him on steel shelves in thousands of vials of blue liquid, a drug he had synthesised from a genetic splice between a gland taken from the Laer that replicated the functions of the thyroid gland and the Biscopea.
In the test subjects – those warriors wounded too badly to survive – Fabius had found that their metabolism and strength had increased markedly before their deaths. Refinement of the drug had kept the increases from overloading the recipient’s heart, and now it was ready for distribution to the Legion en masse.
Fulgrim had authorised the use of the drug and within days it would be coursing through the blood of every warrior who chose to take it.
Fabius straightened from the dead body before him and smiled at the thought of the wonders he could create now that he had a free hand in turning his genius to improving the physical stature of the Emperor’s Children.
‘Yes,’ he hissed, his dark eyes alight with the prospect of unlocking the secrets of the Emperor’s work. ‘I will know your secrets.’
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