The First Heretic

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  ‘Was that necessary?’ Torgal asked. The sergeant was stripped to the waist, his muscled torso a geography of swollen, layered muscles, formed by the biological tectonics at work in his genetic code. The fused ribcage robbed him of much of his humanity, as did the lumpen physicality of his musculature. If there was anything that could be considered handsome in the laboratory-wrought physiques of the Astartes subspecies, it was lacking in Torgal. Scars decorated much of his dark flesh: ritual brandings, tattooed Colchisian scripture, and the slitted valleys from carving blades that found their marks over the years.

  Argel Tal lowered the practice gladius. The smeared redness along its length reflected the overhead lighting in wet flashes.

  ‘I am unfocused,’ he said.

  ‘I noticed, sir. So did the training servitor.’

  ‘Two weeks now. Two weeks of sitting in orbit, doing nothing. Two weeks of Aurelian remaining in isolation. I was not made to deal with this, brother.’

  Argel Tal hit the release pad, opening the training cage’s hemispheres and stepping from its boundaries. With a grunt, he cast his bloodied sword to the ground. It skidded, rasping along the floor and coming to a rest by the dead slave.

  ‘It was my turn next,’ Torgal muttered, looking down at the slain slave with its six bionic arms. Each one ended in a blade. None bore traces of blood.

  Argel Tal wiped sweat from the back of his neck, and tossed the towel onto a nearby bench. He was only half-paying attention to the maintenance servitors dragging the slain slave away for incineration.

  ‘I spoke with Cyrene,’ he said, ‘several days ago.’

  ‘So I heard. I’ve been thinking of meeting with her myself. You don’t find her a calming influence?’

  ‘She sees too much,’ said Argel Tal.

  ‘How ironic.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ the captain said. ‘She asked if I was angry with the Emperor. How am I supposed to answer that?’

  Torgal’s glance took in the rest of Seventh Company’s practice chamber. The battle-brothers training elsewhere knew well enough to give their leader a respectful space when his humours were unbalanced. Wooden staves clacked against each other; fist fighting spars played out to the sound of meaty thumps; powered force cages muted the sounds of clashing blades within. He turned back to the captain.

  ‘You could answer it with the truth.’

  Argel Tal shook his head. ‘The truth feels foul on the tongue. I won’t speak it.’

  ‘Others will speak it, brother.’

  ‘Others? Like you?’

  Torgal shrugged a bare shoulder. ‘I am not ashamed to be angry, Argel Tal. We were wronged, and we’ve been walking the wrong path.’

  Argel Tal stretched, working out the stiffness in his shoulder muscles. He took a moment to compose his reply. Torgal was a loudmouth, and he knew whatever he said would be carried to the rest of the company, perhaps even across to the rest of the Serrated Sun.

  ‘There’s more to this than whether the Emperor wronged us or not. We are a Legion founded on faith, and we find ourselves faithless. Anger is natural, but it is no answer. I will wait for the primarch to return to us, and I will hear his wisdom before I decide my path.’

  Torgal couldn’t help but smile. ‘Listen to yourself. Are you sure you don’t want to carry a crozius? I’m sure Erebus would consider training you again. I’ve heard him express his regret to Xaphen more than once.’

  ‘You are an insidious presence in my life, brother.’ The captain’s scowl darkened his otherwise handsome features. His eyes were the blue of Colchisian summer skies, and his face – unscarred like so many of his brethren – still showed echoes of the human he might have been.

  ‘That ship sailed a long time ago,’ the captain said. ‘I made my choice, and the First Chaplain made his.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Enough, Torgal. Old wounds can still ache. Has there been word of the primarch’s return?’

  Torgal regarded Argel Tal closely, as if seeking something hidden in his eyes. ‘Not that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You know why. You’ve not heard anything from the Chaplain gatherings?’

  Torgal shook his head. ‘They’re bound by oaths of secrecy that a few innocent questions won’t break. Have you spoken with Xaphen?’

  ‘Many times, and he reveals little. Erebus has the primarch’s ear, and delivers Aurelian’s words down to the warrior-priests at their conclaves. Xaphen promises we’ll be enlightened soon. The primarch’s seclusion will be a matter of weeks, not months.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’ Torgal asked.

  Argel Tal laughed, the sound bitter and short. ‘Knowing what to believe is the greatest threat we face.’

  Cyrene was asleep the next time she received a worthwhile visitor. The sound of her door sliding open roused her to a layer of rest slightly above unconsciousness.

  ‘Go away, Kale. I’m not hungry.’ She rolled over and covered her head with the ungenerous pillow. Evidently the monkish, scarce comforts of the Legion’s warriors extended to their servants, as well.

  ‘Kale?’ asked a deep, resonant voice.

  Cyrene removed the pillow. Coppery saliva tingled under her tongue, and her heart beat a touch faster.

  ‘Hello?’ she called.

  ‘Who is Kale?’ the voice asked.

  Cyrene sat up, her blind eyes flicking left and right in futile instinct. ‘Kale is the servitor that brings me my meals.’

  ‘You named your servitor?’

  ‘It was the name of a meat vendor in the Tophet Plaza. He was lynched for selling dog meat instead of lamb, and sentenced to penance for his deceit.’

  ‘I see. Appropriate, then.’

  The stranger moved around the cell with the light whisper of robes. Cyrene could feel the change in the air – the newcomer was a hulking figure, imposing beyond her blindness.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought you would recognise my voice. It is Xaphen.’

  ‘Oh. Angels sound very similar to me. All of your voices are so low. Hello, Chaplain.’

  ‘Hello again, shuhl-asha.’

  She kept the wince from her face. Even the respectful term for her trade shamed her, when spoken in an angel’s voice. ‘Where is Argel Tal?’

  Xaphen growled, like a desert jackal at bay. It took a few seconds for Cyrene to realise it was a chuckle.

  ‘The captain is attending a gathering of Legion commanders.’

  ‘Why are you not with him?’

  ‘Because I am not a commander, and I had my own duties to attend to. A conclave of the Chaplain brotherhood, aboard the Inviolate Sanctity.’

  ‘Argel Tal told me of those.’

  Xaphen’s smile infected his tone, rendering the words almost kindly. ‘Did he? And what did he tell you?’

  ‘That the primarch speaks to one named Erebus, and Erebus carries the lord’s words to the warrior-priests.’

  ‘True enough, shuhl-asha. I was told your vision is still not showing signs of return. The adepts are considering augmetic replacements.’

  ‘Replacing my eyes?’ She felt her skin crawl. ‘I... I wish to wait, to see if they heal.’

  ‘It is your choice. Augmetics of delicate organs are specialised and rare. If you wish to have them, there would be a wait of several weeks before they were ready for implantation.’

  The angel’s clinical tone was curiously unnerving. He delivered his blunt, kindly sentences with all the care of a hammer to the head.

  ‘Why are they considering it?’ Cyrene asked.

  ‘Because Argel Tal asked it of them. The Apothecarion on board De Profundis has the resources necessary for human augmentation, when it comes to valued mortal crew.’

  ‘But I am of no value.’ She didn’t speak from self-pity, merely gave voice to her confusion. ‘I do not know how I could ever serve the Legion.’

  ‘No?’ Xaphen said nothing for a several moments. Perhaps he looked around the featureless chamber
. His voice was gentler when it returned. ‘Forgive my laxity in visiting you, shuhl-asha. The last days have been difficult. Allow me to cast some light on your situation.’

  ‘Am I a slave?’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Am I a servant?’

  The angel chuckled. ‘Let me finish.’

  ‘Forgive me, Chaplain.’

  ‘Several other Chapters encountered lost souls in Monarchia’s graveyard. You were not the only Khurian to join the Legion when we left, but you were the only one taken in by the Chapter of the Serrated Sun. You ask how you could serve us. I would argue that you already do. Argel Tal is my brother, and I know the paths his thoughts take. He brought you as a reminder, a symbol of the past. You are the living memorial of our Legion’s greatest failure.’

  ‘The perfect city was no den of sin.’ She tried to keep the offence from her voice. ‘Why do you always speak of it so?’

  A pause. The slow release of a deep breath. ‘The city itself was not the sin. It was what the city represented. I have told you what the God-Emperor decreed that day. You have a keen mind, girl. Do not ask for answers you can shape yourself. Now, this desire to serve the Legion: tell me why it matters to you.’

  She’d not really considered it before. It seemed the only course to walk, given her presence here. Yet there was a deeper reason, a desire that pulled at her in the uncountable hours she sat in silence.

  ‘I owe my life to the Legion,’ she said, ‘and I wish to serve because it feels right that I should. It would be fair.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  She shook his head, with no idea if Xaphen was even looking at her. ‘No. I confess I am also lonely, and very bored.’

  Xaphen chuckled again. ‘Then we will deal with that. Were you one of the faithful on Khur?’

  Cyrene hesitated, and moistened dry lips with a nervous tongue. ‘I listened to the Speakers of the Word preaching in the plazas, and the daily prayers echoing across the city. Nothing stirred my heart. I believed, and I knew the scriptures, but I did not...’

  ‘Care.’

  Cyrene nodded. Her throat gave a sticky click as she took a breath. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. She couldn’t help the twitch when Xaphen’s hand rested heavy on her shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the young woman said, ‘for my lack of faith.’

  ‘Don’t be. You were right, Cyrene.’

  ‘I... what?’

  ‘You showed insight, and the strength to doubt conventional belief. Over countless centuries, humanity has achieved great things in the name of faith. History teaches us this. Faith is the fuel for the soul’s journey. Without belief in greater ideals, we are incomplete – the union of the spirit with the flesh is what raises us above beasts and inhumans. But misplaced worship? To bow down before an unworthy idol? This is a sin of the gravest ignorance. And that is a sin you’ve never been guilty of. Be proud of that, lady.’

  Warmth flooded through her, to earn the respect of an angel like this. Fervour filled her voice for the first time since the death of her city.

  ‘How could anyone bow before an unworthy idol?’

  Another pause. A hesitation, before sighing out the words. ‘Perhaps they were deceived. Perhaps they saw divinity and believed it was worthy of worship purely because it was divine.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Her eyebrows met in confusion above unseeing eyes. ‘There’s nothing else to worship but the divine. There are no gods but the Emperor.’

  She heard Xaphen take a breath. When the Chaplain spoke again, his voice was softer still.

  ‘Are you so certain, Cyrene?’

  SEVEN

  Compliance

  Swords of Red Iron

  Carthage

  The world had two names, only one of which mattered. The first was used by the native population – a name that would soon be lost in history’s pages. The second was the name imposed by its conquerors, which would hold for centuries, branding an Imperial identity upon a dead planet.

  The globe span in the void with an orbit of slow grace comparable to distant Terra, and its blue-green surface marked it as a younger sibling of that most venerated world. Where Terra’s seas were burned dry from centuries of war and tectonic upheaval, the oceans of Forty-Seven Sixteen were rich with salt-surviving life, and deep beyond poetic imagining. Perhaps the future would bring a need for this world to be a bastion-metropolis akin to Terra, where the buried earth choked beneath palaces and castles and dense hive towers. For now, its landmasses wore the green and brown of unspoiled wilderness, the white and grey of mountain ranges. Cities of crystal and silver, spires that speared the sky from almost laughably fragile foundations, dotted the continents. Each city was linked by well-worn trade roads – freight veins with traffic for blood.

  This was Forty-Seven Sixteen, the sixteenth world ready to be brought to compliance by the 47th Expedition.

  Four weeks after the Word Bearers fleet sailed from the ruin of Khur, they translated in-system here, prowling around Forty-Seven Sixteen with the predatory promise of ancient seaborne raiders.

  The grey warships remained in orbit for eight hours, engines dead, doing nothing at all.

  At the ninth hour, cheers echoed throughout every vessel in the fleet. The primarch appeared on the command deck of Fidelitas Lex, flanked by Erebus and Kor Phaeron. Both Astartes wore their battle armour – the former in the grey of the Legion, the latter in his brutal warplate of the Terminator elite.

  A live pict-feed carried the image to the bridge of every warship bearing Legion colours, as thousands upon thousands of warriors watched their primarch return.

  Clad in sleek armour of granite grey, somehow all the more regal for the lack of ostentation, Lorgar’s crooked smile spoke of some hidden amusement he ached to share with his sons.

  ‘I hope you will all forgive my absence,’ the words melted into a chuckle. ‘And I trust you have enjoyed this time of contemplation and respite.’

  Around him, Astartes warriors broke into laughter. Kor Phaeron lowered his hollow eyes, giving a bleak smirk. Even Erebus smiled.

  ‘My sons, the past is the past and we look now to the future.’ In Lorgar’s grey fist was his crozius mace. He carried it over his shoulder with casual ease. ‘Those of you assigned to other expedition fleets will be granted leave to return to them shortly, but first, we will renew our bonds of brotherhood as a united Legion.’

  Another cheer rang out across the decks of over a hundred of ships.

  ‘This is Forty-Seven Sixteen,’ Lorgar’s contemplative smile remained, though melancholy robbed it of some conviction. ‘A world of such great beauty.’

  With his free hand, he smoothed his fingertips around his short brown beard, little more than neat stubble along his jawline. ‘I do not believe the people of this world to be irrevocably corrupt, but as we have seen, my judgement has its critics.’

  More laughter. Kor Phaeron and Erebus met each other’s eyes, their chuckles joining the Legion’s. This levity was nothing less than an exorcism – a shedding of humiliation’s clinging stink – and both warriors sensed it clearly.

  ‘You have all seen the briefing details,’ said the primarch. ‘The First Chaplain and First Captain inform me that the Chapter leaders gathered this morning to discuss objectives and landing zones, so I will not waste your precious time.’ His dry smile bore little humour now, yet still it remained. ‘The Emperor wishes the XVII Legion to conquer with greater alacrity. If a world cannot be brought to compliance with haste, then it must be purged to its core. So we come to this.’

  In unison, Erebus drew his crozius and lightning rippled in a jagged flow down the claws of Kor Phaeron’s gauntlets.

  ‘My sons.’ Their master’s smile died fast enough for many to doubt it had ever been there. ‘Forgive me for the words duty forces me to speak.’

  Lorgar raised his maul of black iron, aiming it at the planet slowly spinning on the occulus viewscreen. Storms formed in a crawling, meteorological ballet as t
he Legion stood witness – the fleet’s low orbit was curdling the planet’s skies.

  ‘Word Bearers,’ said the primarch. ‘Kill every man, woman and child on that heretic world.’

  Cyrene waited until she realised Argel Tal wasn’t going to continue. Only then did she speak.

  ‘And did you?’ she asked. ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘You didn’t feel the ship quake as it opened fire?’ The captain moved around the room. Cyrene wondered if he were pacing, or simply looking at what few personal effects she possessed. ‘I find it difficult to believe you slumbered through twelve hours of orbital barrage.’

  Cyrene hadn’t slept at all. When the sirens wailed and the room shook two days before, she’d known what was beginning. The Word Bearers’ warships commenced their invasion with a full day of cannon-fire. At times, when myriad mechanical processes aligned just right, the main batteries hurled their incendiary payloads at the planet below in a united burst. The thunder rang in her ears for half a minute afterwards, and they were the worst moments: blinded and deafened, completely without senses. Anyone could enter her room, and she’d be none the wiser. Cyrene had lain on her uncomfortable bed in thrall to her imagination, praying not to feel unknown fingers on her face.

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said. ‘Did you go to the surface after the sky-fire had ended?’

  ‘Yes. We landed in view of the only city that remained standing. It had to be destroyed from the ground. Our orbital weapons couldn’t pierce its defensive shield.’

  ‘You... killed an entire world in one day?’

  ‘We are the Legio Astartes, Cyrene. We did our duty.’

  ‘How many died?’

  Argel Tal had seen the augury estimates. They put the number at almost two hundred million souls sacrificed that day.

  ‘All of them,’ said the captain. ‘A world’s worth of human life.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, closing her useless eyes. ‘All those people. Why did they have to die?’