Deliverance Lost

by Gav Thorpe

  The primarch stood on the strategium with his commanders, the pick-up for the internal vox system small in the palm of his hand. Blacklight protocols were over, the reactors running at full capacity. The strategium was awash with light, bright after the days of gloom. The primarch’s disposition did not match the brightening of the environment.

  Hesitating, Corax wondered what he would say to his warriors. What words of encouragement could he speak when he felt so devoid of hope himself? The Traitors had struck so well, their concealed blow aimed with deadly effect; it seemed unlikely that they could be stopped. He had given many speeches in his life, to rouse the weary to fight on, to inspire his warriors to acts of great bravery; all of the words that sprang to mind now seemed to the primarch to be hollow platitudes.

  It did not matter. He drove out the doubt with a surge of will. Now was the time when he needed most to display the leadership for which he had been created. It was at times like this, not in the heat of battle where his physical abilities could sway the day, that his true worth was judged. He was the primarch of the Raven Guard and his legionaries would look to him for guidance and strength. Many had seen rough times before, though nothing compared to the cataclysm that Horus had now unleashed upon them. Some were survivors of the Unification Wars, others the veterans of Lycaeus’s rebellion. All of them were warriors, with the pride of the Legion in their hearts.

  ‘We leave Isstvan in defeat,’ he said, his words broadcast the length and breadth of the ship. ‘It is not a pleasant feeling, but I want you to remember it. Take it into your hearts and nurture this sensation. Let it flow through your veins and fuel your muscles. Never forget what it feels like to fail.’

  He stopped for a moment, taking a breath, letting another emotion replace the hurt and the despair.

  ‘Do not give in to feelings of desperation. We are the Legiones Astartes. We are the Raven Guard. We have been bloodied but we have survived. Take that sorrow and pound upon it with your anger, until you have forged a new purpose. Those who we once called brothers…’

  Corax stopped again, the words catching in his throat as he said them. He glanced at Agapito, then Branne, then Solaro and finally at Aloni. His commanders’ eyes were bright with emotion, jaws clenched with suppressed fury. The primarch let out a growl, giving vent to feelings he had put aside since fleeing Isstvan.

  ‘Those who we once called brothers are now our enemies. They have betrayed us, and worse still, they have betrayed the Emperor. They are dead to us, and we will not give them the dignity of our sorrow. Anger is all we shall have for them. Anger the likes of which we have never unleashed before. Only months ago we still unleashed our fury in the name of Enlightenment. We brought war to the galaxy in the name of the Imperial Truth. Those days have finished. The Great Crusade has been brought to an end by the treachery of those we now call foes.

  ‘Hate them! Hate them as you have never hated an enemy before. Loathe the air they breathe and the ground upon which they tread. There is nothing so cowardly as a traitor, nor anything so worthy of our abhorrence. Hate them!’

  Pain flared through Corax’s chest. In his agitation he had opened up the wounds he had suffered, causing blood to trickle down his body. A normal man would have been slain by any one of these injuries, but the primarch bore the pain without visible sign, stoically moving the agony to the back of his mind.

  Corax’s hands were trembling and he took a moment, trying to bring some peace to his thoughts.

  ‘They tried to kill us, tried to annihilate the Raven Guard and erase us from the pages of history. But they made one mistake: they failed. We are bowed but not broken, wounded but not slain. I swear by my oaths to the Emperor and by my dedication to you that we will have revenge on those that have so wronged us! They will pay for their mistake with blood and death, and not until the last of them lies dead by our hand shall we know any measure of contentment or satisfaction. We will destroy them wherever we find them, as only the Raven Guard know how.

  ‘Swear with me now, my children, to follow me wherever this road leads. Swear to show no mercy to the traitors. Swear to slay them with hatred in your heart. Swear to excise this cancer that Horus has nourished in the heart of the Imperium. Swear to bring again the Imperial Truth to the galaxy. Swear that we will never fail again!’

  DEEP IN THE BOWELS of the Avenger, Alpharius listened to the primarch’s words and could not help but feel stirred by them. Such defiance was noble. Pointless, but noble.

  FOUR

  Journey to Sol

  Meagre Repast

  The Way is Barred

  THERE WAS MUCH work to be done. With blacklight protocols lifted, the warriors and crew of the Avenger could direct their efforts towards the consolidation of their strength. The hasty rearmament and reorganisations after Isstvan were superseded by more deliberate measures. Ad-hoc squads were broken up and reformed; legionaries were promoted to sergeants, and sergeants raised to higher ranks still.

  Amongst those who were busiest were the remaining handful of legionaries from the armourium. The Raven Guard had lost most of their equipment during the long hit-and-run battles of Isstvan V, and to the Techmarines now fell the task of ordering and repairing and restocking the wargear of the reconstituted squads. The Avenger’s holds gave up a great store of ammunition, but new power armour and weapons were insufficient for the two and a half thousand legionaries on board. Armour replacements and spare parts were also at a premium, and so, along with his fellow Techmarines, Stradon Binalt spent much of his time working on the guns and armour the Raven Guard had salvaged from their defeated foes.

  His existence became a blur of work, every waking hour filled with the crackle of arc-welders, the smell of livery paint, the squeal of pneumatic ratchets and the heat of the ceramite kilns.

  Binalt was intrigued by the wargear that he came across, some of it very familiar, some of it of radically different design, issued to other Legions from dozens of forge-worlds across the Imperium. As best he could, he cobbled together repairs for the Mark IV suits of armour worn by the majority of his comrades, bastardising pieces from the older Mark II and III suits taken from the bodies of Word Bearers, Iron Warriors and World Eaters. Nothing was perfect and every patch and jury-rig came only with the assurance that it would last a battle or two, should the Avenger encounter the enemy again before reaching Terra.

  THERE WAS LITTLE enough aboard the Avenger to work with, so compromises had to be made. Most of the Legion’s armoured vehicles had been destroyed or abandoned at the Urgall plateau, so spare parts for tanks and transports were not in short supply. Binalt and his fellow Techmarines devised a way to reinforce the armour they had created, using the molecular bonding studs usually employed for affixing armour and ablative plates to Rhinos and Predators. This gave the suits a particular appearance, the shoulder guards sealed with rows of large rivets that looked like nodules or blisters. Other vehicle parts – transmission cabling, servos, even spare track links – were pressed into service as makeshift components for the new armour design.

  Slowly the legionaries started to look like Raven Guard again. Greaves, plastrons, shoulder guards and vambraces that had sported the colours of all the Legions that had fought on Isstvan were painted in the black of the Raven Guard, insignia lovingly applied, each stroke of brush or sweep of spray obliterating the colours of former friend and foe alike, as if the Legion were cleansing itself of the memories by covering their marks with their own livery.

  Spare time was in short supply, and in the few breaks he had, Binalt contemplated another, more personal project. He had secured himself a small space between two of the starboard gun towers, a noisy little chamber that reverberated with the clank of the auto-loaders and drummed with the feet of the crew as they performed their gun drills, ever ready for battle.

  There was room only for a small worktop and a set of shelves – no chair for Binalt, so he stood instead. The Techmarine looked at the large pile of broken parts gathered on the table a
nd wondered where he would begin. Pieces of shattered ceramite and twisted metal sat under nuts and bolts and a nest of wires and cables. Here and there he could identify a servo or actuator or muscle-like fibre bundle, all systems he was used to dealing with in a suit of power armour, but fashioned in a way he had never encountered elsewhere.

  He admired the beauty of the craftsmanship even as he marvelled at the engineering and design that had been laboured upon the haphazard scattering of pinions and power relays.

  Binalt started by sorting through all of the parts, splitting them into piles by form and function, leaving some aside whose purpose he had not yet divined. Day by day, sometimes snatching only a few minutes at a time when others were gratefully taking their allotted few hours of rest, he began to make sense of the mess. Alone with his thoughts, bringing rational observation to emotions thrown into disorder by recent events, he contemplated the nature of the daunting project he had chosen to undertake and broke it down into achievable goals. It was relaxing in an odd way, removing the Techmarine from the clutter of the Legion and the memories of Isstvan; a perfectly self-contained sphere in which he could operate, with definable outcomes all within his control.

  It would be a long time until he was finished – perhaps longer than he would survive – but Binalt was determined, filled with a need to do this particular work of artifice. If he could complete this, the world would be right again, and his existence would make sense once more.

  There was little to do except drill, eat and rest. The Avenger had translated from Isstvan seventy days ago and the warp storms were making progress slow. Alpharius worked with his squad, each day learning more about them and more about the person he was supposed to be.

  He had heard rumours that they were not going to Deliverance, but were en route to Terra. The thought intrigued, excited and worried him in equal measure. He had never been to Old Earth, and for many years had aspired to do so. Before the twin primarchs had commanded that the Legion back Horus, Alpharius had often quizzed the older Alpha Legionnaires about the world of mankind’s birth. None of them had been back since they had embarked upon the Great Crusade, and certainly none of them had truly believed that they would ever again witness the glory of the Imperial Palace.

  Alpharius knew that his loyalties were now to a different cause, but the thought of being close to the Emperor still sent a thrill through him, matched only by the pleasure he had experienced on being singled out by the true Alpharius for this mission. The primarch had taken him into his confidence and explained the nature of the Legion’s change of allegiance. The Emperor had, perhaps unwittingly, betrayed his sons and their Legions. He had abandoned them, and in turn had allowed the Great Crusade to falter. The primarch could not explain why this had happened, but had been adamant that Horus would set mankind back on the path of the Imperial Truth.

  Alpharius wondered if he would get a glimpse of the Emperor, and then fretted that if he were brought into the Imperial presence, his duplicitous nature might be revealed. Surely a man as gifted as the Master of Mankind would not be fooled by an altered face and name change?

  More than that, Alpharius’s guise was Terran-born. What if the others born of Terra – only a handful left after the massacre but still alive the nonetheless – saw some flaw in his disguise; what if he betrayed his lack of knowledge to the other Terrans?

  There was little time to worry about the future, Alpharius had to stay constantly alert to maintain the facade he had adopted. He was fortunate in one sense: his new self had a reputation for being taciturn, and this meant he was not expected to speak much. With the help of the Apothecaries and the material absorbed by his omophagea, his vocal chords and mouth had been reshaped to better resemble that of the legionary whose identity he had assumed, but to the keen ears of a Space Marine, any small difference might give rise to suspicion.

  His greatest defence, shared by the others he hoped had also succeeded in their infiltration, was in the unlikelihood of what the Alpha Legion had done. Why would any Raven Guard suspect that their foes had taken on the faces of the fallen? It was a wonderful machination by the primarch and so characteristic of his genius. For another legionary to have doubts about Alpharius’s true nature was to invite thoughts of paranoia. It was so improbable that any suspicion without good evidence was likely to be dismissed out of hand.

  Alpharius bent his mind to ensuring there would be no evidence, training and eating and sleeping alongside his adopted Legion. He showed pride as his ragtag armour was replaced, speaking words of vengeance and swearing oaths of loyalty to the Emperor and Lord Corax alongside his new brothers-in-arms while they repainted their icons.

  There had been a few occasions when Alpharius had come close to revealing himself. Each day he learned a little more – small mannerisms, turns of phrase, and Legion protocols – that enabled him to blend in better with his fellow legionaries, but it was not a perfect process.

  His latest close call had come during a hand-to-hand combat drill. The company had gathered in one of the hangar bays, amongst the dormant shapes of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds – the Avenger’s dedicated training chambers being insufficient for the large number of warriors on board.

  Sergeant Dor had called the squad to order and given a disturbing speech.

  ‘We must learn to fight a new enemy,’ he had told them. ‘For decades we have honed our skills against savages and inferior foes, and faced strange adversaries such as the Isstvan Warsingers and the Ninturnian Devil-Blades. Now we face something entirely different. Now we must fight other Space Marines.’

  It was an obvious thing to say but having the situation mentioned so baldly brought home to the legionaries just how much the galaxy had changed. There were mutters of discontent, but Alpharius held his tongue, not wishing to betray his own thoughts on the matter.

  ‘We train against each other every day,’ Lukar had said. ‘What difference should we expect?’

  ‘We have never tried to kill each other,’ had been the sergeant’s reply.

  The squad had paired off, armed only with their monomolecular-edged combat blades. Alpharius had found himself facing Lukar, and the two of them had started at the sergeant’s command, thrusting and parrying, trying to find the weak points in each other’s armour, probing for the flexible joint seals, reinforced eye lenses and the gaps between armour plates.

  Blades flickering, other pairs duelling around them, Lukar and Alpharius were a match for each other; equal in speed and strength. Their blades clanged against each other, were caught on shoulder guards or deflected by angled movements of their forearms, neither able to find an opening.

  It was then that Alpharius had made his mistake.

  Feinting high, he had dropped to one knee as Lukar’s blade had shot up to meet the blow. Under his opponent’s guard, Alpharius had reversed his grip on the knife and swung back-handed, driving its point towards the vulnerable sliver of material between Lukar’s upper thigh armour and his groin guard.

  Lukar had frozen, Alpharius’s blade just millimetres from contact.

  ‘You have me,’ declared Lukar, stepping back, shaking his head. There was surprise in his voice. ‘Where did you learn such a move?’

  Alpharius had hesitated, realising that the manoeuvre had been part of his Alpha Legion training, not replicated in the doctrine of the Raven Guard.

  ‘I saw a Traitor using it at the dropsite,’ Alpharius had said quickly. ‘I watched a Word Bearer take out one of our brothers from the Salamanders with that move.’

  The rest of the squad had stopped their drills and were looking at Alpharius and Lukar. Alpharius did not like being the centre of attention. He had stood up and sheathed his blade as Sergeant Dor approached, helmeted head cocked to one side.

  ‘What was that?’ the sergeant had asked. ‘Using the tactics of the traitors?’

  ‘It seemed effective at the time,’ Alpharius had replied, remaining calm.

  ‘Pay attention,’ Dor had said, waving the rest o
f the squad closer. ‘Why don’t you show us that again?’

  Alpharius did as he was asked, demonstrating the undercutting blow to the others. There were murmurs of appreciation and Dor had slapped him on the chest with a word of thanks.

  ‘This is what we must do,’ the sergeant had said. The red of his eyeplates had seemed to fix on Alpharius for some time before he continued, moving his gaze to the rest of the squad. ‘We need to learn from our enemies, adapt to the way they will fight. Any other innovations, any edge you can give us, share with the rest, all right?’

  ‘Yes, sergeant,’ Alpharius had replied.

  Though his cover had remained intact, it was later that same day that Alpharius had realised what he had done. One day, a Raven Guard might use that move on an Alpha Legionnaire, or defend himself against it and so be victorious. Alpharius’s purpose was to learn about the Raven Guard, not enhance their skills. The situation was getting more complicated than he had imagined, the considerations more numerous.

  Alpharius focused on what was important. He was an actor playing a part, learning more about his role with every day. In his heart he knew he was sworn to the Alpha Legion and felt no guilt at lying to those who he had once called his allies. It was not their fault that they had chosen the wrong side in the coming war. Alpharius did not feel contempt or pity for the Raven Guard, but had only a mild sense of regret that he could never genuinely call the legionaries around him brothers again. Their names slipped from his tongue as easily as the false declarations of allegiance and revenge, but he was not one of them. Like the rest of the Alpha Legion, he had been chosen for a greater purpose, one that the twin primarchs had assured him went beyond loyalty to the Emperor or Horus, and concerned the fate of the galaxy itself.

  And like all of those who were blind to the greater truth, the Raven Guard were expendable. They would serve their part and then be destroyed, and he would be returned to his Legion to fight amongst his true battle-brothers again. It was this thought, this goal, that focused Alpharius as he lay awake pondering the unknown task ahead. He was Alpha Legion and so did not expect to be lauded or singled out – such glory-mongering was not in the Legion’s traditions. He would fulfil his purpose, take contentment from the knowledge of a mission accomplished and the praise of his twin primarchs, and become one of the many again.