Legends of the Space Marines

by Christian Dunn (ed) - (ebook by Undead)

  The 1st Company led the reserve companies in the defence of the home world, where battle with the Novamarines and Howling Griffons had been joined. Meanwhile, about half of the dwindling Mantis Warrior fleet had been pulled into the last-ditch defence of Badab, the final stronghold of the rebellion and the seat of Lord Lufgt Huron, Master of the Astral Claws and most loyal servant of the Emperor. The 2nd Company, as usual, was in the vanguard, engaged where the fighting was most fierce. The Tortured Soul had been in almost constant battle for the last eight years—Maetrus had been on the bridge when they had captured the Rapturous Flame from the Fire Hawks and plunged the Mantis Warriors into war all those years before. But not even this ancient and venerable vessel could withstand the kind of hammering that it was receiving now. The ship’s great spirit remained unbroken and determined, but its systems were gradually collapsing under the relentless strain. The decks shuddered with impacts and the halls echoed with bootfalls as servitors and Space Marines strove to control damage and effect repairs. Whole sections of some decks were constantly and irrevocably ablaze, while others had been torn open to the absolute cold of space.

  Over the years of battle, most of the ship’s components had been cycled through a system of redundancy to ensure that it was always fully functional and able to withstand even the most formidable assault, but now there was nothing left in reserve. A serious hit on the control systems, life support, or even the engine block would leave the glorious ship all but dead.

  A new warning light pulsed on the control deck and a siren sounded, unheard amidst the other alerts and noise. Maetrus flicked his eyes away from the fiery planet on the viewscreen and noted the warning. They were being boarded. With the number of gaping holes in the hull, it had only been a matter of time before one of the Exorcist or Star Phantom ships had found a breach through which to deploy a boarding party.

  “Sergeant,” muttered Maetrus almost inaudibly, as though the words didn’t really need to be spoken, “take two squads down to the breach and repel boarders. When Librarian Shaidan returns from Badab Prime I’ll send him to support you. Now go.”

  Sergeant Audin’s helmet tilted slightly, indicating his comprehension; then he turned swiftly and marched out of the bridge. As the door slid open a thin gust of smoke and the smell of charred metal wisped onto the deck.

  Maetras turned his attention back to the viewscreen. A formation of frigates was manoeuvring into an intricate assault pattern around the Piercing Nova, one of the Astral Claws’ strike cruisers. The Nova was ill-equipped as part of a defensive blockade and its crew could hardly be accustomed to repelling this kind of battering—Astartes strike cruisers were designed to seize planets, not to hold them. But the Astral Claws had no choice as Badab’s planetary defences were gradually being hammered into the ground by the bombardment canons of the besieging coalition.

  The battle for Badab was all but over; it was just a matter of time now. There were no supplies or reinforcements coming through the Exorcists’ blockade: the Executioners had basically abandoned their posts and fled back to their home world in an attempt to hold it against the vengeance of the Imperium, and the will of the Lamenters had been crushed in an ambush by the Minotaurs nearly four years earlier—they had done the unthinkable and surrendered. The Axis of Badab was shattered; the Mantis Warriors were now Lord Huron’s only hope of survival, and Maetrus knew that this faint hope depended on his 2nd Company.

  It was the kind of sight that an Adeptus Astartes might dream about. The heavens were full of war, with massive and terrible forces aligned against each other, and nothing but heroism and devotion lay between death and glory. An entire planet lay in ruins, its atmosphere a blazing inferno enwrapped in flaming clouds. In the mire was a desperate last stand, and spiralling around it was an overwhelming and malignant force bent on the destruction of a people, of a Chapter. Maetrus could see little hope of victory in the theatre before him, and he had no intention of seeking a retreat, even if he could somehow escape the immovable line of Exorcists that held the system in isolation. But his mind was no longer engaged in thoughts of victory or defeat. He had not entered this war believing that it could be won, but only believing that it should be fought. Sometimes honour was not about winning, but merely about dying the right way. For him, realised Maetrus, this war had always been about dying. It had been a long and blood-drenched pathway towards his death.

  A great, stuttering explosion broke Maetrus’ reflection. One of the capital ships of the Star Phantom deployment convulsed and then blew apart, scattering debris and spinning shards of metal through the Astral Claws’ faltering line and into the atmosphere of Badab. It was the Spectre of Fear, the cruiser to which Maetrus had despatched his last squad of Mantis Religiosa. He had known that they would not return, but had also been certain that they would not die without glory. The death of a strike cruiser was no less of a testament than those devoted Space Marines deserved. The Religiosa had somehow managed to board the hobbled vessel and presumably fought their way to the engine core, where they had probably triggered a critical overload, staying to defend their sabotage until the engine finally blew. It would make no difference to the outcome of the battle.

  “Give me a dozen squads of those Space Marines, and I will give you victory in any battle,” he muttered to himself, his eyes glittering with resigned admiration.

  “If we gave you a dozen squads of Religiosa, captain, the Mantis Warriors would quickly go extinct.” The response from Shaidan was unexpected.

  “Then we must find a way of harnessing that power without losing the minds of our Space Marines to such unquestioning devotion, my friend. Imagine a Religiosa who returned. Shaidan, when did you return?” asked Maetrus, finally turning on his heel at the unexpected sound of the Librarian’s voice.

  “This moment, captain. I bring news from Badab Prime.” Shaidan had removed his psychic hood and his long black hair hung loosely over his shoulders. His face was lined with grime and blood, but his piercing green eyes seemed to look into Maetrus’ weary soul as he inclined his head to show his respects. He had never seen the captain’s spirit so morose.

  “I would prefer bad news,” replied Maetrus. “The battle is on the brink of a spectacular finale, Shaidan. Good news may simply delay something glorious. Unless you have a miracle, give me bad news.”

  “My news may have no bearing on the outcome of the battle, captain. But I think you might call it bad news nonetheless.”

  Maetrus considered the face of the Librarian before him, old beyond its years and aching with the wisdom of power. “You will tell me that Huron has surrendered?” He laughed without humour. “And that he requests his allies to stand down?”

  “I bring no such message, captain. Rather, I bring a report.” Shaidan’s friendly tone stiffened. “I rendezvoused with the squad of Astral Claws on a moon of Badab Prime, as you requested, captain. They were right that the Star Phantoms and the Exorcists are now so focused on breaking the defences of Huron’s home world that reaching the minor planet should have been relatively simple.”

  “Should have been?”

  “Yes, captain. You were also right to note that other forces are at work in this theatre. We met with some inconvenience due to a small contingent of Novamarines. They were… persistent.”

  “I think we should skip to the point, Shaidan,” mocked Maetrus gently, inclining his head back towards the viewscreen and the raging battle it showed. He liked this Librarian, and saw in his careful manner the promise of high command one day. But not today. “There are some other things that require my attention today. And you are needed by Audin, who is repelling a boarding party even as we speak.”

  Shaidan nodded, seeing the sad mixture of respect and resigned urgency in Maetrus’ face. “Lord Huron’s will is unbroken. He will fight until his Chapter is no more.” Despite the need for rapidity, Shaidan paused to collect the correct words. “Yet the Astral Claws are no longer themselves, captain.”

  “No riddles, Librari
an. This is not the time.”

  “Maetrus, I almost failed to recognise the squad that I had been sent to meet. In place of the proud colours of the Astral Claws, each Space Marine had painted over his armour in random ways, obscuring their-Chapter insignia and even covering the Imperial aquila.”

  “These were renegades? Deserters?”

  “No captain, this was one of the elite squads employed by Huron as his palace guard. This was the squad that he entrusted to rendezvous with me.”

  Maetrus stared. “What are you saying, Shaidan?” There was anger in his voice; his lack of comprehension fuelled his frustration. “Has all discipline in the ranks collapsed? I cannot believe it.”

  “I cannot be sure, captain, but I believe that this is a new discipline. It seems that Huron has instructed his battle-brothers that the Siege of Badab is evidence that the Emperor has forsaken them at last. He claims that the Emperor’s gaze has been corrupted by the bureaucrats of the Imperium and that it can no longer differentiate between loyalty and tyranny. Rumours spread that Lord Huron had gouged the aquila from his shoulder, and vowed to continue his fight for truth for the Emperor, even if no longer in the Emperor’s name. The Space Marines related a rumour that Huron had insisted that since the Emperor could no longer recognise friend from foe, he would demonstrate his loyalty by ending his service to a muddled mind and by showing it the clarity that it has lost. This, he is supposed to have said, would be the ultimate and most selfless kind of service—risking his own damnation to bring the Emperor himself back into the light. Hearing this, it seems that units in the Astral Claws have desecrated their armour in similar—or not so similar—ways.”

  Maetrus stared as his mind raced to process the information. Hearsay and stories were always rife during war, and this war had dragged on for a decade, pitting the Astral Claws against the corrupt and hypocritical Imperium of Man itself. He could understand that tensions would be incredibly high within that Chapter, but he had never heard of the will of a Chapter being broken so completely by battle fatigue or stress. For the sake of the Emperor, Space Marines were not mere Guardsmen! The Adeptus Astartes were built for perpetual war; this was their very reason for being. He could not believe that Huron or his Claws had broken. It was simply not possible. They should be relishing the prospect of their glorious and righteous deaths, not bleating about being forsaken.

  Unless… hesitated Maetrus, unless Huron knows that he’s wrong.

  As soon as the thought hit him, he felt the power of its truth. Huron is wrong. And he knows that he is wrong. He has deliberately misled us for his own self-serving ends. He has… Maetrus could hardly finish the thought. He has turned us against the Emperor! And we believed him… We were too credulous to see the truth—we wanted to help this Chapter, in whom we thought we saw something of ourselves, striving for perfection in a galaxy that misunderstood and feared us. We mistook them for us, and so lost ourselves forever. And Huron knew what he was taking from us. He knew, and he took our souls without even the decency to reveal his claws. Even the agents of Chaos have more honour than this kind of power-mongering and politicking; at least they have the decency to tempt you with the promise of supernatural power.

  Suddenly it was all very clear and unambiguous, and Maetrus realised that this rebellion had never felt right to him. He had assumed that the sinking terror in his heart had simply been because of the way that the war was tearing the segmentum apart, but now he realised that the horror was more simple and direct: the rebellion was wrong.

  “Captain?” asked Shaidan, watching Maetrus’ face gradually set into fury.

  “Librarian, you will assist with the repulsion of the boarding party. You should know, however, that if either you or Sergeant Audin wish to avert a mutiny, you will need to be back on the control deck in less than ten minutes to commit your own.”

  “You will inform Master Neotera before you act, captain?” Shaidan’s question was formal and procedural, as though he were simply going through the motions. The observance of protocol calmed his spirit, which roared for action. His soul felt the perfect righteousness of Maetrus’ decision, in a way that it had not felt for a decade.

  “Of course.” Maetrus’ gaze was level. His fury had settled into a fierce resolve.

  “Then we will return to receive further orders once the boarding party has been destroyed, captain.”

  With that, Librarian Shaidan nodded curtly and turned to leave. Spinning his ornate, double-bladed force-staff in his hand he marched from the bridge without a backward glance. “Ruinus!”

  An attentive Space Marine stepped forward from his position guarding the doors to the control deck. “Captain?”

  “You heard Librarian Shaidan’s report, sergeant?”

  “Yes, captain.”

  “You will understand that I need to get a message to the Chapter Master. I do not require a response, and there is no time to wait for one. I trust that you will transmit my communication in due time?” Maetrus eyed him carefully.

  “Yes, captain. Of course.” There was no flicker of doubt. Maetrus even thought he saw a flash of relief and pride, as though a painful and debilitating wound had suddenly been healed.

  “Inform Master Neotera that the Tortured Soul will be turning its guns against the Astral Claws imminently. Request no permission and ask no pardon, but please explain that I trust he would do the same in our position. Indeed, I trust he will do the same.”

  Neotera turned away from Ruinus. “Sergeant Soron! Train the starboard weapons batteries onto the Piercing Nova and prepare the bombardment cannon to hit the planetary defences. We are going to make this into the right death if it is the last thing we do.”

  * * *

  As the Thunderhawk exploded, the ground in the crater began to crumble away. Shaidan strode forward over the faltering dust, pushing into the squad of Novamarines that clustered around their heavy weapons in the heart of the crater, trying to defend their retreat back down into the subterranean tunnels and mineshafts of the ageless moon. His Mantis Staff blazed with green, phosphorescent venom, reminiscent of the lethal aura of the Hottentota itself. He lashed and stabbed with the glorious weapon, pushing it through plates of blue and bone power armour in a fury of indignation, righteousness and vengeance. As he advanced through bolter fire and lashing chainswords, he muttered an ancient machine curse, spitting his thoughts towards the Thunderfire cannon just as it teetered clumsily back into the tunnel. It seemed to pause and twitch, as though it had been slighted by the insult. The Techmarine behind it snapped his head around as though struck. And then the cannon simply stopped, whining to a halt in the mouth of the Novamarines’ escape route.

  As his assault squads dropped down into a semicircle around the far side of the crater, forming an enveloping firing line on the more stable ground of that bank, Shaidan took aim and launched his staff like an ethereal javelin, sending it searing through the remnants of the Novamarine squad and piercing into the great barrel of the Thunderfire cannon. There was a flash and the inaudible crackle of an unspeakable energy discharging, and then the cannon exploded, radiating superheated shrapnel and high-explosive shells like a giant scattergun. The remaining Novamarines took the full force of the detonation, and the Techmarine who had been tending to the cannon was all but incinerated in the blast. The escape tunnel, the Novamarines’ only path out of the crater, collapsed completely.

  As the Novamarines finally fell under the disciplined volleys of bolter fire from the assault squads, Shaidan focused his thoughts for a moment of quickening and seemed to flash across the disintegrating crater in a blur of emerald light. A moment later, he was lifting his unblemished Mantis Staff out of the ruins of the cannon, and the next he was back across the crater before the last standing Novamarine.

  The Mantis assault squads ceased fire and all eyes turned to Shaidan as he stood imperiously before the defeated foe. The Novamarine before him wore the insignia of a veteran sergeant, and his armour was scored with the evidence of coun
tless battles. He stood with proud defiance before the Mantis Librarian, meeting his eerie, emerald gaze through the implacable shield of his helmet’s visor.

  Shaidan inspected him, a faint psychic light flickering around the nodes in the hood that covered the back of his head. The Wars of Badab, the Liberation Wars as they were known to the righteous, had cost the Astartes so many lives. He had killed countless of the Adeptus himself, and he had seen so many of his sacred brethren fall. Yet he found it hard to believe that any of the Adeptus Astartes could take this lightly or find any joy in their victories. Every victory meant the loss of valuable gene-seed and each death was a cut in the flesh of the Emperor himself.

  Yet, it was a consequence of the nature of the Astartes that battles rarely resulted in prisoners. It was not that Space Marines lacked mercy or compassion—indeed, the Mantis Warriors prided themselves on their compassionate natures—but rather they lacked the will to surrender. No matter what the odds or the chances of survival, a Space Marine found his very being in fighting. Without the fight, how could he demonstrate his devotion to duty, and without duty a Space Marine was nothing, perhaps worse. Compassion was for others; for the self there was nothing.

  So, Shaidan inspected the last of the Novamarines on Badab Prime with interest, quite willing to accept his surrender, but fully prepared for the likelihood that this sergeant would still believe he could win some kind of victory, despite the dozen or so guns trained on him and the magnificent Librarian standing before him.

  The Librarian gazed into the Space Marine’s eyes, seeing straight through the opaque visor of his helmet as though it weren’t even there. He saw no fear and no desperation. There was no frantic scheming for an escape. The gaze was level and calm, and the eyes shone with deepest sincerity. But there was also something else: this sergeant hated him. He was repulsed by the Mantis Warriors, as though they represented something horribly corrupt and disgusting. For a fraction of a second, Shaidan recoiled from the force of the hatred, shocked to see it in the eyes of one of the Astartes. Composing himself, the Librarian probed a little further, reaching through a null zone into the sergeant’s thoughts, where he found unending stories of the horrors and perversions perpetrated by the Astral Claws and their allies in this war. The sergeant felt that the Emperor was on his side.