by C Z Dunn
What in the name of the Lion is he doing? Does he have a death wish?
That thing killed Master Zadakiel. He doesn’t stand a chance.
Takes a warptouched to kill a warptouched…
I will suppress their thoughts as I have done countless times before. All Space Marines are conditioned to make them transhuman, still human yet something more, but a Space Marine Librarian is twice removed from the trillions of human souls that inhabit the Imperium. Even among our battle-brothers we are still regarded at best with suspicion, at worst with contempt – as our very minds and bodies are a conduit for the warp, the same source of arcane power tapped into by the vile servants of the Ruinous Powers. Ten thousand years ago, shortly before the turning of half our Legion, psykers were outlawed among the ranks of the Legiones Astartes as a result of those same doubts and concerns that persist even now like a racial or genetic memory.
Zero point four seconds after my mind becomes quiet the Helbrute raises its multi-melta once more and takes aim at me. I do not need to draw upon my psychic gifts to know what is imminent as the sound of its weapon powering up is the only clue I need. The shot will never come, however, as 0.5 seconds after the weapon powers up, it lowers it and allows it to spool down harmlessly having realised 0.3 seconds earlier that I have erected a psychic shield around us both. The rage that up until then has been so evident in its eyes and features will dissolve to be replaced by a look that can only be described as relief. It will wail plaintively – the last audible sound the beast will ever make – though none outside the crackling blue warp energy dome will hear it.
The Helbrute’s state of confusion persists for 1.1 seconds longer, by which point I have been able to penetrate its flimsy psychic defences and enter the thing’s mind. The ease with which I am able to drop the shields implanted in his psyche during the years of conditioning he underwent to become a Space Marine gives credence to somebody or something having already dismantled his psychic protection many times before.
With the barriers negotiated it will take me a further 0.6 seconds to locate him within the riot of constant noise and colour that his mind has become, as if thousands of souls are vying for control, and 0.2 seconds more to drown out all other voices leaving the Helbrute as the sole occupant of his head. I hesitate for the next 0.2 seconds deciding upon the optimum form for my psychic avatar to take when appearing before him. If I get this wrong then I may enrage the beast more and not have time to get out of his mind before he raises the multi-melta and kills me. After briefly considering appearing before him as myself, I will choose to adopt the form of the Chaos Lord who has so recently fled from the battlefield.
Despite the psychic shield, thoughts from my battle-brothers will begin to bleed through 0.1 seconds later when they discover Sergeant Arion is missing from the field of battle. Even though all Dark Angels are habituated to suppress their emotions, the loss of one of their own still elicits a strong response that can be felt by one such as myself. Another 0.1 seconds will elapse, and my mouth will fill with the taste of iron as blood vessels burst in my nose, before I raise the intensity of my shield and return my full attention to the Helbrute.
With all distractions removed, it takes only another 0.1 seconds to make my way through his psychic landscape to the only object that still remains there: a large rectangular metal box. The rendering will be crude, like the drawings found on the walls of caves by the early remembrancers who visited Caliban before its fall, but I will find a door along one wall and be able to turn the handle to open it. Like the Helbrute’s mind, it will no longer be locked.
‘Brother?’ the occupant of the cell I have just opened will say 1.4 seconds after his eyes have adjusted to the light flooding in through the open door. ‘Is that you? Have you returned?’
It will take me another 0.6 seconds to respond as I fully take in the cell and the prisoner within. Because the cell has been recreated from the fractured memories of the Helbrute, it is the smell of stale perspiration that is most prominent, starved as he must have been of light for so long during his captivity. The cell will be entirely bereft of fittings and furniture, smooth metal adamantium walls, floor and ceiling being the entirety of its construction. The captive himself will seem incongruous in these surroundings, clad as he will be in a full suit of power armour, completely red save for the left pauldron which will be black with a crimson sword icon emblazoned upon it. He will wear no helmet and his calm features will seem entirely at odds with the disorder I found upon prising open his thoughts.
‘I have returned, brother.’
I will add no more than that and allow him to respond while I probe deeper into his mind. If I say too much or the wrong thing then my avatar will be revealed as unreal and my work will be for naught.
‘I knew you would come again to see me.’ His manifestation within the cell will relax, and with it his mind. All of his knowledge and memories will be laid bare to me and with them will come understanding, realisation and even pity. Zero point four seconds later he will speak again. ‘The voices are no longer here. Did you do that? Did you finally find a way to make them go away after all these years of trying?’
I will filter through centuries of mental detritus, memories fractured by the torment he has endured since his internment within the Helbrute, and his incarceration prior even to that. I will see visions of glorious battle, the foes of mankind being driven back in the Emperor’s name and His name being venerated by the Crimson Sabres, and they will mingle with images of nonsensical barbarism, of entire worlds put to the torch and civilisations extinguished. I will piece together these fragile pieces and rebuild them into a facsimile of the psyche that should be there rather than the one that is. I will locate the source of his confusion, his pain, his horror and for the briefest of instants I will feel empathy with this beast and thank the Lion that it was not the Dark Angels who had heeded the call that day to muster at Umidia, that it was not our proud brotherhood that was laid low by so base a trick of the arch-enemy.
Zero point four seconds after he has spoken, I will issue my reply.
‘I did, brother. I have made the voices go away.’ He will smile at this and raise a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob, old emotions from his pre-Space Marine days surfacing once more thanks to my invasion. ‘But it isn’t permanent.’
He will stare at me in response to this revelation, like a hungry animal who has just had a scrap of meat taken away from him.
‘As soon as I leave this cell the voices will return,’ I will say. He will look away from me and clasp his hand to his face once more, and then look back. He will look as if he is trying to say something in response but words fail him. The sorrow he will feel will render him as mute as his physical form. I will wait another 0.3 seconds until the strength of his emotions threatens to eject me from his mind, and feel blood running from my nostril in the physical realm, before speaking again.
‘But I can make the voices go away forever. And the pain. Is that what you want? To be free of the voices that constantly haunt you and the pain that constantly wracks you? Is that what you want, Sevarion Kranon?’
Less than 0.1 seconds will pass before he nods his head and a tear streaks down his cheek, clearing a channel through the conglomerated grime of incarceration.
‘So be it,’ I will say as I drop the psychic shield.
Brother Heskia
The fully charged plasma cannon thrums in my hands, my shoulders locked to prevent the weapon vibrating. I blink and in the split second it takes me to close and reopen my eyes, the shimmering blue haze that had enveloped Brother Turmiel and the Helbrute disappears. I have positioned myself squarely behind the brute in anticipation of such a thing occurring and now, standing less than two metres from my target, I depress the activation stud on the cannon and unleash molten fury.
The white-hot plasma superheats the air, burning off trace chemical elements unique to the atmosphere of th
is world and filling the air with a scent not unlike decomposing vegetation. The aroma is quickly replaced however as the shot finds its mark and the metallic hide of the Helbrute turns to slag.
I maintain my firing position and keep my legs fixed apart, heels dug into the wet earth beneath my feet, as I continue to jet plasma. The beast does not scream, does not make any sound at all, as the plasma corrodes his armour and continues to burn through the organics and mechanics within. Neither does it thrash or raise its weapons, nor even turn to face its killer. This is not just an acceptance of its fate – it welcomes death.
The gauges on my helmet display are all registering numbers well in excess of danger levels but I keep my gauntlet over the activation stud just that little bit longer to make sure the job is done properly. When I finally do ease off, an eerie silence fills the clearing, disturbed only by the ever more distant sound of the enemy retreating. The beast stands motionless, the gaping hole in its torso almost comical, framing as it does the blue-armoured figure of Turmiel standing the other side of it. It sways unsteadily until, as if both gravity and life fail simultaneously, the Helbrute topples onto its side.
Excellent work, Brother Heskia,+ Turmiel’s voice says in my head.
My thanks to you, Librarian,+ I reply without words. +Together we have avenged the death of Master Zadakiel and ensured that this… thing will never threaten the worlds or citizens of the Imperium ever again.+
He nods and I am suddenly struck by the realisation of just how powerful a being Brother Turmiel is. Having seemingly advance knowledge of where and when bolter shells are fired is one thing but to wield the power to subdue and lay low a foe as massive and deadly as a Helbrute is a different matter entirely. Thank the Lion that he blessed us with finding a psyker as powerful as Turmiel before the enemy did. He nods once more beneath his hood, giving me the distinct feeling that he is still in my head listening to my thoughts.
Master Balthasar’s voice breaks over the general vox-channel. ‘Squad Raphael, report. Any sign of Arion?’
A disappointing stream of negative replies follow but my hearts lift when I hear Sergeant Raphael’s voice among them.
‘Form on me. Sergeant Barachiel, you and your squad will take point,’ the Company Master continues. ‘Squad Raphael, take formation behind the Terminators. Turmiel, with me and see if you can find any trace of Arion’s psychic spoor.’
There are still eleven souls in the group we are about to give chase to. Though several of them are merely cultists, at least seven have psychic wards in place suggesting they are Space Marines, though I cannot tell whether Sergeant Arion is one of them.+
‘Sergeant Raphael, you will remain here and prepare the dead for progenoid extraction,’ Master Balthasar says.
The vox crackles as if a response is about to be issued but then the link closes once more without anything being said. Sergeant Raphael turns and assesses us all approvingly and makes the sign of the aquila across his chest before commencing to strip our dead of their armour. Though the sergeant is a proud warrior with decades of exemplary service to the Chapter, he realises that in his current state he would be a liability in the battle ahead and accepts his task with dignity and honour.
Following the Deathwing out of the clearing, each member of Squad Raphael returns our sergeant’s salute before entering the undergrowth once more to retrieve our stricken brother.
Kranon the
Relentless
Your brother lies dead because you abandoned him and left him at the mercy of the enemy. Already the maggots feast upon his organics and his soul is carried off to face eternal torment. You will be next, Sevastus Kranon. You have taken one of the Dark Angels’ own and they will not rest until they have retrieved him. They are going to kill you, Sevastus, and then your soul will belong to us just like poor, deluded Sevarion’s.
Make the most of the brief time you have left to mock me, Balethu. Once we reach the Hellfire Stone and enact the ritual I will be rid of your continual prattling and, as the Crimson Slaughter once rid the universe of your physical form, we will banish your immaterial presence too.
And don’t call me Sevastus.
Still you continue with that line, Sevastus? You may have been able to delude your Crimson Slaughter that you’re activating the Hellfire Stone to banish us but do you really have to delude yourself too? You’re doing this to further your own ends and increase your power and favour among the Four. Don’t you think the rest of the Crimson Slaughter know this? Don’t you think we tell them every single minute of every single day? If the Dark Angels don’t stop you then they will. They may have followed you loyally enough up until now but do you really think that when it comes down to it they’ll let you go through with this?
Is that doubt I detect there?
Doubt? We don’t understand.
You said ‘If the Dark Angels don’t stop’ me. That’s the first time you’ve conceded that the Dark Angels might fail to stop me since I embarked upon my quest to find the Hellfire Stone. I know what’s going on here.
Please, enlighten us.
You know I am going to succeed and it frightens you. It frightens you even more than when the entire Chapter of the Crimson Sabres marched into your towns and villages and slaughtered you. Even more than when your world was set ablaze and those fortunate few who had survived our genocide choked on the fumes from your world’s funeral pyre. It frightens you and that’s why you’re trying to plant the seeds of doubt in my mind and the minds of the Crimson Slaughter, but your lies will not germinate. We can sense your fear, all of us, just as we sensed your fear all of those years ago back on Umidia. We sense your fear and recognise your desperation.
You laugh? Why do you laugh?
Oh, Sevastus, how did one so naïve rise to become the master of an entire Space Marine Chapter?
Don’t. Call. Me. Sevastus.
Fear? You think that when you gunned down our unarmed tribesmen and hacked our women and children to pieces that we felt fear?
Yes. Again you laugh. Why do you laugh?
That was not fear, you fool. Our blood flowed for him, our skulls now belonged to him and we gave both willingly out of devotion. You may have prevented the ritual we had spent centuries working towards but in killing us you allowed us to serve Khor’en in another way. We were given the chance to corrupt an entire Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes and we welcomed it with open arms. That was not fear you could sense, it was gratitude. Every death cry as you cut us down venerated his name, every scream of pain as one of us bled out was a prayer of devotion. Fear? It is said that a Space Marine knows no fear but I thought you would at least be able to recognise it in others, Sevastus.
Make the most of these final few minutes of haunting me because when the ritual is complete, then you will know fear.
As will you, Sevastus, as will you…
Interrogator-Chaplain
Seraphicus
‘What is its name, this daemon they were attempting to summon?’
The prisoner gurgles and spits blood from his mouth. It splashes to the ground, flecking the legs of my armour.
‘In the tongue of the Balethu he is called Haur’esh,’ he murmurs. The lights in the interrogation chamber flicker briefly and the temperature drops perceptibly. The two Chapter serfs stationed at the door vomit and one of them flees from the room screaming. I backhand the traitor with my gauntlet and once more grip his jaw in my hand.
‘Its true name. What is its true name?’ Without turning away from him, I motion to the other Chapter serf to leave.
‘I don’t know it. None of us knew it.’
‘What about the Balethu? Did they know it?’
‘We were too busy slaughtering them to ask,’ the prisoner laughs, blood bubbling from his lips. I backhand him again and his cheekbone fractures. I let go of his jaw with my other hand and his head hangs limply as he flits between coher
ence and unconsciousness. If Turmiel were here then I’d have no compunction about letting the psyker loose in the prisoner’s mind to extract the information we need, but the Librarian is needed on the world down below and I do not have the time to recall him.
‘Let’s try another line of questioning, then.’ I stride over to the table where my interrogation instruments are laid out and select a handful of fleshbarbs and torsion bolts. ‘How did the Balethu plan to summon this daemon? What vile ritual did they have to enact to conjure the fiend from the warp?’
‘I’ve already told you enough.’
I can barely hear his voice; my ministrations have weakened him to the point where he is barely clinging to life. Slowly I move across the chamber towards him.
‘I will ask you again. How is it summoned?’
‘I’ve done all my master asked. I led you here, into his trap, and now I can die knowing that there’s nothing you can do to stop us.’
He is barely conscious now, life ebbing from him at an alarming rate. I thrust a fleshbarb into his chest in an attempt to shock him back into some semblance of coherency but all he can muster is a pathetic grunt as the metal penetrates beneath his skin. I’m losing him and time is running out.
‘Tell me what the summoning ritual entails and I will grant you a swift death. Do not tell me and I will keep you artificially alive and in constant pain for months.’
A bluff, he will not live beyond the next few minutes, but in his diminished state I gamble that he’ll believe me. It is a bet I lose.
‘Too… late. We’ve already…’ The sentence is never finished as the traitor finally expires. I throw the remaining fleshbarbs to the ground in frustration and then, glancing back at the table where my interrogation implements and crozius arcanum sit, I am struck by an idea.