by Gav Thorpe
‘Good, good. I’ll have Pellis start the muster first thing in the morning. We can sort out the details once the initial orders have been despatched.’ The Caesari stopped and gripped the rail. Below, servants were herding the guests towards the main building, corralling them like hippocants. A musician protested loudly as he was manhandled from the stage, waving his lyrepipe above his head like a regimental banner. ‘Anything else we need to decide now?’
‘The commander,’ said Juliana. ‘You’re not leaving Therion to go running off to war, not at a time like this.’
The Caesari’s expression sagged with disappointment as he nodded. His lips twitched for a second or two while he considered the problem. Valentinus smiled and looked at Marcus again.
‘Well, no need to look too far, is there, my son?’ said the Therion ruler. He slapped a hand to the praefector’s shoulder. ‘You know more about what is happening than any of us. You can lead the Cohort.’
‘I am honoured, father, but I am only a praefector,’ said Marcus.
‘Nonsense. I’m in charge. You’re vice-Caesari now. Full authority. Antonius will take over as praefector.’
Marcus shook his head in disbelief, mouth opening and closing several times before he remembered his station. He dropped to one knee and took his father’s hand, kissing the knuckles.
‘I will serve,’ he said, speaking the oathwords of the Cohort. ‘For the Emperor above all others. For Therion and Enlightenment.’
Pelon suppressed a smile. Being servant to a praefector was one thing, being aide to a vice-Caesari was something far grander. If he was lucky, and he could see no reason why he didn’t deserve a piece of luck, he might even be made a sub-tribune to recognise his status.
‘Ensure your master’s rooms are ready,’ Juliana said to Pelon. ‘Without warning of his arrival, I have no idea what state they are in.’
With a bow, Pelon accepted the slight admonishment and withdrew. Even as a sub-tribune he would still have to fold down the sheets. It gave him comfort to think that there were some things in life that even the treachery of a Warmaster could not change.
ELEVEN
Rebirth Begins
Unauthorised Transmission
Doubts Arise
THE BEEPS OF the machines and background thrum of energy cables triggered a sense of comfort in Corax as he stepped into the sterile chamber of the new gene-tech facility. Centrifuges whirred and servitors plodded from work station to work station with samples and tests. Vincente Sixx, divested of his armour, sat at a bank of five screens, data tables and helical displays large on the monitors.
At a long table covered with data tablets and instrumentation, Nexin Orlandriaz pored over a transparent sheet, idly tapping the fingers of his free hand against an empty crucible. Sixx looked over his shoulder as Corax strode across the tiled floor. Orlandriaz was too absorbed in his work to notice the arrival of the primarch.
The thud of the servitor’s metal-shod feet disturbed the peace, the clacking of a crude teleprinter burst into life as an analyser spewed out its latest findings. On closer inspection, the room was balanced on the line between order and anarchy. Sixx’s area was tidy, disciplined and compact, while the magos’s work sprawled over several desktops and was piled on trolleys left haphazardly around the tech-priest’s high stool.
‘You reported significant difficulties,’ Corax said, stopping to look over Sixx’s shoulder at the displays. ‘What is the problem?’
‘Compatibility,’ said Orlandriaz, emerging from his contemplation, massively dilated pupils shrinking as he focused on Corax. ‘The Emperor did something to streamline the primarch material to create the Legiones Astartes template, but the possible permutations are too numerous to investigate. My mathematical analysis suggests it would take at least five years of continual study to narrow down our options to a number more suitable for physical experimentation.’
Corax looked at Sixx, eyebrow raised.
‘It has only been twenty days,’ said the primarch. ‘A little early to admit defeat, isn’t it?’
‘The primarch genetic coding is vastly more complex than standard Raven Guard gene-seed,’ the Apothecary explained. ‘The Emperor extracted only a few elements of the original data to create the Legiones Astartes strain, and about a dozen more in the Legio Custodes data we retrieved from the Terran vault. To isolate the rapid maturation and cell cloning abilities you desire, and graft them onto our own gene-seed, we have to retroactively engineer the Raven Guard gene-seed with the appropriate sequence. There are millions of sequences that might be applied, even from a single primarch strand, and there are twenty unique primarch codes to choose from.’
‘Take this one, sample four, as an indicator,’ said the genetor majoris. ‘We have managed to identify at least six unique sub-complexes and protein strands geared towards physical durability, above and beyond that found in the others. In the same sample, there is a dearth of certain enhanced genes that, in our estimation, boost the cytoarchetectonic structure responsible for the development of nociceptors and proprioceptory function. The deficiency seems to be deliberate. In subject six there is a whole suite of genetic encoding derived from a non-human source, possibly canine. In subject twenty, a whole suite of growth boosting augmentations is absent. In all, we have catalogued seven hundred and eighty-three variations between the samples. This leaves the common, core material, the primarch essence for want of a better term, exceptionally small compared to what I expected.’
‘I see,’ said Corax. He knew enough about genetic manipulation to understand the problem they were facing, but even his extensive biological knowledge was insufficient to propose a solution. He stared at the screen for some time, letting the revolving images of different cell helices float into his consciousness. He studied the data tables, absorbing the information without consciously reading it, hoping it would trigger some insight from the Emperor.
All he could remember was sadness.
It was a struggle to keep motivated, to repeat the research that had taken so many centuries to perfect. All had been swept away by… By what, Corax could not quite remember. The Emperor’s memories were blank on the matter. The primarch concentrated on what had happened after the period of ignorance.
There was hope in his heart. His ambition had been misplaced. Rather than create twenty superhuman warriors, he could create thousands, hundreds of thousands of next-generation soldiers. Each would have a fraction of the power of the primarchs, it was true, but their numbers would more than make up for the difference. Corax held an image for a moment, a picture of rank after rank of armoured warriors, fists and banners raised in salute. He would create an army. Something more than an army: a Legion.
Intellect fired by his imagination, he set to work with this new goal in mind. There was no need to create this Legion from a single zygotic embryo. Humanity numbered in its billions, just on Terra alone. Through Corax’s thoughts, the Emperor discarded swathes of the primarch genetic data, deemed redundant in light of his new plans. He focused on amending all of his findings from the primarch project, filtering out those abilities and traits that could only be gene-bred from inception, concentrating on transferable, implantable genetic strands.
The primarch latched onto those memories, delving deeper. As he did so, Corax edged Sixx aside and pulled a touch-screen interface closer. Hesitantly at first, he began to tap the screen, navigating his way through the mass of coded information. His fingers picked up speed as the memories came faster and faster. Fingertips dancing over the screen, Corax delved into the intricacies of the primarch genes, separating out those sequences and proteins discarded by the Emperor, following in his creator’s remembered footsteps. The shifting displays and tables blurred as the primarch continued, isolating gene-fragments and cell duplication segments, tossing some aside, moving others into a separate partition.
For five minutes he worked at furious pace, linking unconscious recall to conscious action. Orlandriaz had moved up beside him
at some point and was staring at the flow of information spreading across the screens, nodding ferociously while he muttered to himself.
Corax stopped, taking a deep breath as he straightened.
‘Masterful,’ whispered Orlandriaz.
‘Perhaps if you could spare us five more minutes, lord, we could solve the whole problem,’ said Sixx, grinning broadly.
‘If only it were that simple,’ said Corax. He had not worked out anything, simply remembered it. The Emperor had never attempted to create what Corax sought, and so there was no base of knowledge for him to recall. ‘That still leaves you with seventy-two different gene-strands to analyse.’
‘A moment, please,’ said Orlandriaz, laying his hand on Corax’s arm as the primarch turned away. Corax glanced down in annoyance at the magos’s clutching fingers, noticing that the tech-priest’s fingernails looked to be made of a dull bronze. Realising his error, Nexin took his hand away and nodded his head in apology.
‘Forgive me, Lord Corax,’ said the magos. ‘Whilst taking a break from our analystical studies, the Chief Apothecary and I engaged in a debate that was without resolution. I seek your opinion on the matter.’
‘What debate?’ asked Corax, darting a look at Sixx, who was frowning at his companion.
‘It is my belief that your plans could be taken a stage further,’ said the magos.
‘It is out of the question,’ said Sixx, making a cutting motion with his hand. ‘It is against our every principle.’
‘What is?’ said Corax.
‘It seems that we might actually make our task easier if we were to incept the project from an initial cellular generation, rather than hybridisation of an existing organism.’
‘Cloning,’ snapped Sixx. ‘The magos thinks we should clone new warriors from scratch rather than modify the gene-seed for implantation. I reminded him that there are many more complications associated with such a process, not to mention the problems it will create in the future.’
‘Your arguments were irrational,’ said Orlandriaz, scowling back at the Chief Apothecary. ‘Emotive.’
‘Every possibility must be explored,’ said Corax. He raised a hand to silence a protest from Sixx. A passing thought of the Emperor had surfaced in his mind, a philosophical point his creator had concluded when the primarchs had been taken from him.
‘With that said, direct cloning must be considered only as a final option if there is no other solution. Magos, there is good reason why the Emperor did not directly clone his new Legions from a single template cell. The resultant legionaries would be identical. Without the random mutation present in the wider human genetic structure, there is no possibility for variation. The Legiones Astartes are successful because we are similar, but not identical. Qualities such as leadership, intellect and aptitude for different disciplines allow us to be flexible and to fulfil many roles.
‘Even the primarchs were not created equal in all measures. The Emperor understood the importance of variation. Beyond that, there is another consideration. The Legiones Astartes are humanity’s warriors, separated and superior in many ways, but always raised up from amongst those they lead and protect. A legionary may be a neo-human, but he was once human. A legionary is the incarnation of the Emperor’s plan, a perfect symbol and example for mankind to aspire to, not simply a tool of war. It is humanity that the Emperor will lead in the conquest of the galaxy, not some new species made to order in a laboratory.’
‘Thank you, lord,’ said Sixx, with a sidelong look at Orlandriaz. ‘More eloquent than I could ever phrase it.’
‘I understand your position and reasoning,’ said the magos. ‘I will comply with your direction.’
‘Make it work,’ said Corax. ‘That perfect symbol has been tarnished by Horus. I would see it shine brightly again.’
THE ATMOSPHERE IN the docking bay changed as the primarch entered, Commander Branne following a few steps behind. Navar Hef felt the increase in tension and reacted, standing just a little straighter, puffing out his chest just a little further. It was only the second time he had seen the primarch in person. The first had been on his acceptance into the recruits for the Raven Guard. Now Corax was here, only eight days after his return to Deliverance, ready to inspect the next generation of recruits. Navar’s eyes followed the primarch as he strode along the gallery at the end of the hall, as did two hundred and ninety-nine other pairs. It was testament to the primarch’s thoroughness that he was taking the time for this, when there would be so many other demands made upon him.
The three hundred novitiates stood to attention, a block of black-robed young men with lean bodies, close-cropped hair and eager eyes. Navar felt the wave of pride that flowed through the group as Corax nodded his head in acknowledgement of the massed recruits. A simple, easy gesture for the primarch, but one that spoke of a respect that could not be matched by any other individual, save if the Emperor himself had come to see them.
The orders for the recruit company to pack their few possessions and gather at Ravenspire’s Centrus Terminal had started a wave of speculation throughout the novitiate blocks adjoining the great tower. Navar was of the opinion that they were going to be shipped out direct to the fighting, as many were. He had heard, second-hand unfortunately, of the losses the Legion had suffered on Isstvan V, and knew that Corax would not take such a defeat lightly. Some had said they were being evacuated to Terra, that Deliverance was under immediate threat and the whole Legion was retreating. Navar had argued against such nay-saying. The Raven Guard would defend their home to the last man, he was sure of it.
There were some who claimed that the stories circulating about Horus’s treachery were simply a test of their determination, rumours circulated by the primarch to see who had the fortitude to be a true legionary. Some, a boring few in Navar’s opinion, reckoned that after the hiatus following Branne’s departure, the normal procedure was being implemented and they were simply being moved on to the next stage of their training. Navar was equally dismissive of these claims; he knew he was an able fighter and physically superior to most of Deliverance’s youth, but at ten Terran years old he and many of the others were simply too young to begin the enhancement process yet.
That Corax had deigned to address them personally added to Navar’s conviction that something out of the ordinary was occurring. His idle thoughts melted away as the primarch spoke. Corax’s voice was quiet but assured, full of conviction and authority. It was impossible not to listen, and Navar quickly forgot all of the rumours and gossip, drawn in by the primarch’s irresistible tone.
‘You have proven yourselves to be exemplars, the fittest and brightest humanity has to offer,’ said Corax. ‘Every new generation of Raven Guard are to be lauded and celebrated as bearers of the Legion’s traditions and future warriors of the Emperor. Those of you gathered here will be more than that. You will embody the Raven Guard and the ideals of Deliverance like no others before you. You are shortly to become legionaries, and you should take pride in that. Yet you must also reconcile yourselves to a burden the likes of which no previous generation has borne.’
Corax leaned on the metal rail of the balcony and bowed his head for a moment, eyes closed. When he opened them, Navar felt swallowed by their blackness. His awe evaporated, replaced by dread as Corax continued.
‘Much of what you have heard in recent days is true. The Warmaster, Horus Lupercal, is a traitor to the Emperor. The Raven Guard have suffered badly from his treachery and our strength is much diminished. You will be the first legionaries that start us back on the road to recovery, the first generation to fight for a return to glory. Your elevation takes place at a time more troubled than any in the Legion’s proud history. You will be tested, physically and in your hearts, like no other legionaries before you.’
The primarch’s mood brightened, and it seemed as if the hall itself lightened in reflection of this.
‘Take heart that you will not be found wanting. Your dedication and courage will not fail. As novi
tiates you have proven yourselves worthy of bearing the colours of the Raven Guard. The ignorant may look at you and see fresh faces and young hearts, but they do not see what I see. I see the same valour and pride in you that I saw in the eyes of the young men and women who fought beside me to free Deliverance. It is their example you must follow, and their example that you will surpass. If you don’t believe me, ask old Branne here. I remember when he was just a babe, mewling for his mother’s teat!’
Navar laughed along with the others, amused and not a little disturbed by the thought of the hoary commander having once been an infant. The laughter subsided as Corax’s expression grew grim again.
‘The trials begin now. Your patience, endurance and trust will be sorely tested by what you are about to undergo, but they are nothing more than practice for the tribulations that await us further down the road. You will act as Raven Guard. You will endure and grow stronger.’ Corax lifted a fist above his head. ‘I salute you, recruits of the Raven Guard. Your transports await. You leave Ravenspire as novitiates, but will return as warriors of the Legiones Astartes!’
‘For the Emperor and the Legion!’ bellowed Branne, duplicating his lord’s salute.
‘For the Emperor and the Legion!’ Navar shouted along with the others, raising his fist as high as he could reach, straining to make his voice a manly roar.
THERE WAS A time for stealth and a time for violence. Since he had arrived on Kiavahr, Omegon had exclusively practised the former, but he felt a sense of release, almost joy, as the sentry’s head imploded within his closing fingers. Flicking skull fragments and slick brain matter from his gauntlets, Omegon stepped over the twitching body while Rufan and Alias stooped to pick up the corpse. The two Alpha Legionnaires casually tossed the remains into a nearby chem-pool. Noxious fluids bubbled as the body sank, releasing methane-tainted puffs of air.
With gore-stained fingers, Omegon wrenched aside the bars across the sewer inlet, the corroded steel turning to flakes in his hands. Turning sideways, the primarch lowered his bulk into the channel beyond, the culvert barely large enough for his armoured frame. A thin sludge of slimy effluent trickled along the bottom of the rockcrete tunnel, stinking but harmless to his enhanced physiology.