Red Fury

by James Swallow

  Rafen fell away, a hiss escaping his teeth. There was blood oozing from a wound on Noxx’s brow as he shot the other Astartes a look. “He fights one at a time well enough. Let’s see how he does with two at once.”

  “Impressive,” allowed Daggan. “For something less than a day old, I’ve barely seen the like outside the ranks of the tyranids.” The Chapter Masters stood in a line, watching the duel from the viewing balconies. “But can it do more than just fight with blank instinct?”

  “He is far more than a xenos insect driven by impulse, lord,” said Caecus, “the Bloodchild is a pure expression of the genetic ideal of the Astartes. More than a hundred Blood Angels, alive and dead, have their DNA expressed within his physiology. I believe that with the correct stimuli, the clone will be able to assimilate the muscle-recall and genetic memory of each one of them!”

  “And what of the implanted organs we share?” demanded Armis. “Without them, this creation is nothing more than a servitor of better design and breeding.”

  “The replicae process duplicates many of the implants within the first budding of the modified zygote,” insisted the Apothecae. “Oolitic kidney, occulobe, multi-lung, bicopea, the secondary heart organ, all of these are naturally occurring structures within the body of the Bloodchild.” He nodded to himself. “In that fashion, the clone is superior to a human-source Astartes. He need not undertake the full and lengthy process of adaptation that a normal man must endure.” Caecus dared to throw a sideways glance at his master. Dante did not meet his gaze, his attention fully concentrated on the fight unfolding below them.

  “There is a question that no one here has yet asked,” said Sentikan, his eyes glittering deep beneath his cowl. “If this patchwork being is indeed a distillation of all the potential of the Sons of Sanguinius, then what of the Rage and the Thirst?” The hooded warrior turned slightly towards the Blood Angel Apothecary. “Have you spliced that out of his genetic code, majoris? Or will your creation still be subject to the curse that touches every one of us?”

  Caecus swallowed hard, lost for an answer.

  Blood Angel and Flesh Tearer came at the clone-Marine from the right and the left, hook swords held chest high, fast and deadly.

  The Bloodchild did not waver; something in its eyes, perhaps some hunter’s intuition saw that Noxx moved a fraction slower than Rafen, an artefact of the earlier duel in this arena. It employed the feint move again, but this time the clone shifted and left Rafen slashing at open air as it met Noxx’s upward-swinging cut. Once again, the curved tips of the swords met, but the Flesh Tearer was unready for it. The Bloodchild executed a perfect disarming move, twisting and dragging the Space Marine’s weapon out of his grip before the veteran sergeant could stop him. The force of the motion made the Flesh Tearer’s sword describe a loop about the hook of the clone’s weapon and down toward the Bloodchild’s other hand. The grip slapped into the clone’s palm and it snarled, looping both blades about in a lethal arc.

  The reticence Rafen had shown toward the Bloodchild evaporated with that masterful display; the clone was indeed every bit the warrior that Caecus claimed it was. Even as he advanced on it, he found himself wondering what kind of heights such a Blood Angel might reach if properly trained and disciplined.

  One moment it was forcing Noxx into the wall; the next it turned to attack Rafen with the twin streaks of silver swords. The ferocity of the assault was staggering, and he caught the rush of anger darkening the Bloodchild’s face as it came at him. With a colossal impact, the blades scissored across his hook sword and broke it along the length with a screech of rendered metal. The torsion of the blow twisted through Rafen’s arm and shocked him backward; for a moment he almost lost his footing.

  As fast as it came at him, the clone was roaring into Noxx’s face again. The swords fell flat upon the Flesh Tearer’s shoulders in a V and closed, shifting to sever his head at the neck with a single motion. Noxx’s hands, bloodied and raw, came up to fight against the killing strike. He cried out in pain, his shout warring with the Bloodchild’s snarls and growls.

  Rafen reacted without thinking, and hurled the broken sword like a throwing knife. His aim was true; the bifurcated blade impacted and set deep into the flesh of the Bloodchild’s back, a couple of centimetres beneath his shoulder blade.

  The reaction was instant. The clone brayed and spun about, Noxx suddenly knocked aside, the two hook swords falling from its nerveless fingers as it scrambled to reach for the broken weapon, desperate to pull it free.

  Bloodchild and Blood Angel locked eyes, clone and Astartes linked by a chain of raging battle-hate. Rafen felt the ebb and flow of the combat rage inside him, metering it by the second as he had been trained to his entire life; but the clone had no such preparation. He saw the shadow of the fury erupt in those lifeless eyes, saw the turn-key of the Red Thirst rising.

  With a screech, the clone gripped the broken blade and ripped it from its own flesh, bright vitae cascading off the edge. As Noxx struggled to his feet, the Bloodchild opened its mouth and ran Rafen’s makeshift weapon over its tongue, sucking the fluid from its surface. Red stained the white fangs behind its lips.

  The clone pivoted and mirrored Rafen’s earlier attack, throwing the blade at Noxx. The Flesh Tearer went down again, the broken sword burying itself in the veteran sergeant’s thigh.

  Rafen gasped as the Bloodchild’s torso rippled, the muscles moving and shifting beneath the russet surface of his flesh in abhuman coils. The clone threw itself at Noxx, colliding with him as he tried to rise once again.

  Noxx screamed as the clone’s mouth opened wide and an arc of teeth clamped into the meat of his shoulder, new blood spitting in rich gushes across the stone floor. A grotesque sucking sounded as the clone-Marine drank deep.

  The Blood Angel ran, in a rolling motion ducking low to snatch up one of the discarded hook swords. He leapt into the air and came down sharply; leading with the weapon’s curved point. It found purchase in the clone’s torso, in the same oozing wound where he had struck moments before.

  The clone’s back arched and it hooted with agony. Noxx was left to bleed upon the floor of the pit as it swept up clawed hands and gurgled through a mouthful of Astartes vitae. A hammer blow from an off-hand strike knocked Rafen off his feet and sent him sliding backward, his skull resonating with the impact. The strike was made with twice the power of every previous attack; it seemed as if the Bloodchild was energised by the power of the Black Rage, the boiling energy barely contained inside the clone’s body.

  He was dimly aware of shouting coming from the balconies above, but Rafen could not look away as the Bloodchild came stalking toward him in swift, loping steps. With each footfall, the clone’s tanned skin seemed to bunch and tighten. Fingers curved into claws, growing extra knuckles and longer nails. The clone’s mouth opened… and it opened and opened. The jaw distended, new rows of fangs emerging from the gums. It was mutating before his eyes, twisted by the force of the gene-curse forged into its very flesh.

  It bellowed a word, forcing a single sound through a throat choked with thick liquid. “Blood?”

  “Rafen!” A cry reached him from the galleries overhead and he spied Ajir up there, gesturing wildly. The Space Marine threw something toward him, a slab-sided shape spiralling down toward the pit. Rafen sprang to his feet and leapt, snatching the bolter out of the air. He landed, his finger tight on the trigger.

  Without hesitation, Rafen marched the contents of the gun’s sickle magazine up the Bloodchild’s body, ripping it into pieces in a welter of crimson. The remains of the clone sagged to the stones, twitching and dying.

  He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. “Terra protect us,” he breathed, releasing the weapon to make the sign of the aquila with his blooded hands.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Caecus stood rigid as Dante turned away from the edge of the balcony to look directly at him. His legs were leaden, rooted to the spot. The elation he had tasted only moments ago was now ashes
in his mouth, the perfect ideal of his Bloodchild warped and destroyed. Failure. Another failure.

  “I was so close!” he whispered. “I…”

  When Dante spoke, it was a blade twisting in Caecus’ heart. “Apothecae Majoris, I have indulged this fantasy of yours beyond the point of rationality. You have shamed yourself, and shamed your Chapter with this monstrosity.” He pointed at the remains down in the fighting pit.

  “I only wished to…” He gulped down air, finding it hard to speak. “I was so certain…” Caecus cast around, looking for support and saw only measuring stares from the other Chapter Masters. He groped for an explanation, for any vague thread of justification. “Perhaps I was too hasty. The woman Nyniq was correct, we should have run more trials before—”

  “Enough,” said Dante. The Lord of the Blood Angels was furious, but it was a cold, cold fury tainted with disappointment and weariness. As he spoke, the full and complete scope of Caecus’ error became clear to the Apothecae. “You will remove yourself from this place and return to the Vitalis Citadel. The method of your censure will be decided on another day, but for now you will do as I say.” Dante’s face darkened. “Make no mistake, Caecus, for this is not open to interpretation. This is my command to you. End your pursuit of the replicae project and terminate all works connected to it with immediate effect.”

  “I have several nascent Bloodchild clones still in situ,” he breathed, the admission forced from him by his master’s steady, hard gaze.

  “Destroy them all. No trace of these abominations are to remain.”

  Caecus fell to one knee, desperate to find some words he could say to show contrition, to make Dante understand of the pure motives behind his vision. “Lord, please…”

  “No trace,” repeated the Chapter Master, with finality.

  Bowing his head, Caecus found the energy to nod but do little else. His mind churned as he caught sight of the mess of flesh and bone that was all that remained of the first Bloodchild. It hardly seemed human now, just a smear of crimson and offal; the traces of a hideous, malformed freak. Dante was correct; he had shamed himself, with his hubris and his folly, and worse still he had tainted the sacred ground of the fortress-monastery by daring to bring the flawed clone into its hallowed halls. All this he was guilty of, made worse by the fact that the successor Chapter Masters had been there to witness it. I have not only made myself a fool, but my master as well.

  Sentikan was speaking. “Lord Dante. I think we understand now why you chose not to disclose this line of research. None of us wish to follow the path of the Raven Guard or the Space Wolves toward taking beasts into our ranks.”

  “Perhaps more research is needed,” suggested Daggan.

  “Perhaps,” continued Sentikan, “but not here. And not today.” The Master of the Angels Sanguine turned his hooded face toward Dante. “I submit that this matter must be, as you ordered, brought to a close.”

  “Someone should be sent, to verify the conclusion of the experiments,” said Orloc.

  Sentikan nodded toward his escort. “I offer First Captain Rydae for this task.”

  “Agreed,” said Dante. “We have much to think on, cousins. I bid you return to your chambers and consider what you have seen and heard today. Tomorrow we will reconvene in the Grand Annex and bring the matter of this conclave to an end.”

  “One way or another,” intoned Daggan, pivoting to study the Apothecae.

  Caecus kept his eyes upon the marble floor, not daring to utter another word.

  In his chambers, Dante poured a measure of nightwine into a crystal goblet. Normally, the subtle aroma of the fine vintage would grant him a moment of focus, as his enhanced Astartes senses drew measures and depths from the liquor that ranged far beyond those of mortals; but today it was heavy and cloying. His ill mood robbed him of the manner to appreciate the drink; anger tainted it like oil.

  There was a rap at the door and he snapped out a terse command. “Enter.”

  Mephiston hove into the room; even without the flayed-muscle pattern of his armour and the crystalline psyker hood about his neck, the Lord of Death still cut an impressive figure. He had come without being summoned; Mephiston knew his master’s manner so well the words had not needed to be spoken. “We have had better days than this one, my lord.”

  “Indeed.” Dante’s annoyance flared for an instant and the goblet let out a hiss of glass on glass as it cracked in his tightening grip. He slammed it down and grimaced. “Tell me, my brother, is there any way in which we could have tainted the conclave more than we have?” Mephiston wisely elected not to answer, and his master went on. “Curse Caecus for his thoughtlessness!”

  “He will be punished for his disobedience.”

  “Too late,” Dante growled. “I should have seen it coming. The majoris has always been a stubborn one, and I, a fool to indulge him!” He shook his head. “His imprudent display of that creature has done nothing but weaken us still further in the eyes of our successors!”

  “Word will not spread of this,” said Mephiston. “Brother Rydae knows what is expected. The magos woman, she will be silenced.”

  “I am not concerned with the magos biologis.” Dante’s brow furrowed. “I am concerned with the disposition of our cousins.”

  “Lord Seth,” said Mephiston, with ill-concealed scorn.

  “And others,” noted his commander. He sighed. “Perhaps I should not judge Caecus too harshly. I too am guilty of folly, for believing that our kindred would accede to the tithe.”

  “What you ask is not unreasonable.”

  Dante gave a hollow chuckle. “Seth would certainly take issue with that statement, brother.” He became solemn again. “I spent so much time in rumination, careful to hide our state from the galaxy at large, it never occurred to me that the blood of our blood would seek to turn it to their advantage.”

  Mephiston took a moment before he answered. “The Flesh Tearers are insubordinate, it is ever their way. It has been since the time of their first master, Amit. They will push to the very limit of censure and beyond if they believe they can do so. But my lord, do you truly believe that they will defy you when the moment of choice comes?”

  Dante’s answer was forestalled by another knock upon the door. He called out and Brother-Sergeant Rafen stood in the entranceway.

  “Master,” he said with a bow, “Lord Seth wishes to speak with you. Alone.”

  Dante glanced at Mephiston and nodded. “Perhaps I will have the answer to that question sooner than expected.”

  Mephiston did not meet Seth’s eyes as they crossed paths. The psyker Librarian stepped past him and closed the doors to the chamber. The Flesh Tearer stood for a moment, taking in the scope of the room.

  Dante was at the slatted window. The Baal sunset was rich with umber and orange tones. “How is your sergeant, Noxx?” he asked, without preamble.

  “It will take more that that to kill one of my men.”

  Dante accepted this without comment. “Would you care for something, cousin?” The Blood Angel indicated a tall flask of murky wine.

  “Only a moment of your time, Dante,” he replied. “And the opportunity to address you as an equal.”

  “You have always been so, Seth,” said the other master.

  “That is not true, and you know it.” He crossed the room, examining the elaborate rug beneath his feet; it was a rendition of the Ultima Segmentum, woven in millions of coloured threads. “First Founding. My kinsmen cannot compare to that.”

  “That has meaning, yes. But it does not diminish you.” Dante studied him. “But I think you have never believed that, no matter how many times I have said it.”

  Seth waved the comment away as if it meant nothing, but inwardly he was quietly seething. “The subject of diminishment is a sensitive one for both of us, yes? Only I have lived with it for far longer than you. I’ve come to understand it, like one might come to know a constant enemy.”

  Dante let out a slow breath. “I am tiring of this c
ircumlocution. You think I do not respect you. You are wrong.”

  Beneath the silver implant, a nerve jerked in the Flesh Tearer’s face. “What I respect is the will of Terra. All the Flesh Tearers are is in the name of the spirit of Sanguinius and the Emperor of Mankind, for their glory. Can the Blood Angels say the same?”

  “Of course,” Dante snapped. “I would strike down a lesser man for daring to suggest otherwise!”

  “And yet circumstances might be seen in certain lights to suggest exactly that. The glorification of a false Sanguinius by your men? A schism that nearly destroyed your Chapter? And now, this pitiful exhibition by your senior Apothecae? How are any of these things in service to the will of Terra, cousin?”

  “I have given my explanations,” Dante folded his arms, growing colder in tone as he spoke. “I have explained my reasoning.” His eyes narrowed. “Do the same, Seth. Why are you here? What do you want of me?”

  “I came at your summons, Lord of the Blood Angels.”

  “After you first refused it. I say again; What do you want?”

  Seth allowed a thin smile to emerge on his lips. “I am here because I see a chance to serve the Golden Throne, by stemming the rot that threatens to eat out the heart of the Blood Angels. I wish to offer you an honourable solution, Dante.” He shook his head. “Look at yourself, cousin. Look at where your hubris has led your Chapter. You are the great and mighty Blood Angels, First Founding, feared by many, revered by more… But you have allowed yourselves to grow lax upon that reputation. This business with the whelp Arkio and the Ruinous Powers… You should never have let it go so far! But you were too fixated on your own glory or on some other matter to see it until it was too late.” He saw a momentary flash of something like doubt on Dante’s face and seized upon it. I know you. I know these are all questions you have already asked yourself, Seth nodded. “We are Adeptus Astartes. And our greatest fear is not death, but to be found wanting.”