by Gav Thorpe
‘Very likely,’ said Azrael, beginning the ascent. ‘One might be tempted to think our forebears on Caliban had something to hide long before the schism.’
‘Please, brother, do not joke about such things. We have enough conspiracies to occupy us already.’
They continued in silence, winding their way up through the Rock until they came to the corridor that held the Great Library and Azrael’s rooms. Entering the command chamber of the Supreme Grand Master, they discovered Issachar’s report waiting on a screen for them. Azrael scanned it quickly.
‘The energy signature detected at the heart of the unknown fleet seems familiar,’ he said. He activated the interface servitor wired into the back of the desk. It was nothing more than a head affixed to gimbals angled from a recess in the wall. A sallow-skinned face regarded him with blank glass eyes, coiled cables trailing from its temples.
‘Input data criteria,’ it droned from an artificial voicebox, lips sealed with loops of red wire. Azrael felt a quiver of distaste, reminded of Tuchulcha’s puppet.
‘Search archives, reverse chronology, seeking matches with latest scan report.’
‘Searching.’
While the servitor accessed the depths of the archival storage banks, Azrael examined the status report in more detail. The Consecrators were on a trajectory taking them on a circumspect route around the system, keeping a long distance between them and the unknown fleet. The unidentified ships numbered between five and seven capital-class ships, with twice that number of escorts. They were coming around Caliban’s star and were heading towards the former location of the Dark Angels home world.
‘Cease search,’ Azrael said sharply, remembering where he had seen the sensor readings before. ‘Those energy outputs are the same as those that Belial uploaded from the databanks of the Streisgant citadel. He said it was identified by Astelan as the Terminus Est.’
‘The plagueship of Typhus,’ said Ezekiel. ‘That is not surprising. His role in this crisis has yet to be identified but he is intimately involved. It seems that Sapphon and Asmodai were right. The capture of the Fallen, the ones we thought were architects of this plot, has not curtailed its execution. Others still at large continue the scheme.’
‘Tuchulcha said that we could save Caliban, but I cannot see how that is possible.’
Ezekiel was lost in thought for several minutes while Azrael continued with the report. A vid-connection from Issachar flashed across the screen. The Supreme Grand Master stabbed an armoured finger onto the acceptance key, apprehensive of what the Master of the Watch might say.
‘Report,’ Azrael snapped.
‘Unknown fleet is retiring, Supreme Grand Master. They are turning back from our axis of advance. Also, we have received a hail from Grand Master Nakir requesting a rendezvous.’
‘Nakir is here?’ Ezekiel said quietly, as surprised as Azrael by this news. Chapter Master Nakir of the Consecrators was something of an enigma even amongst the mystery-wreathed warriors of the Unforgiven. ‘Your message has brought forth the Master of Souls from the catacombs of the Reliquaria. These must be dire times indeed.’
‘Tell Nakir to make all speed for the Caliban nominal point, he is welcome to join us in the Tower of Angels. Extend the same invitation to Chapter Master Dane aboard the Flame of Galandros.’
Azrael silenced the link and moved from the command chamber to his office, Ezekiel on his heels. He sat down behind his desk, the reinforced chair creaking in protest at the weight of his war-plate, and rested his hands on wood polished smooth by generations of Supreme Grand Masters.
‘What do we tell them? Dane and Nakir?’
‘I suppose the truth is not an option,’ replied the Chief Librarian. Azrael raised an eyebrow, not sharing his companion’s moment of humour. ‘No need to mention Cypher or the warp-thing. Divinations have led us here. The Terminus Est and the importance of the location is enough of a threat to justify mobilising the Unforgiven in force. Dane will follow your lead and will not pry deeply.’
‘I am surprised by his response almost as much as by the Consecrators’ presence. They have suffered many casualties in their latest campaigns. Almost reduced to half strength by several accounts.’
‘As I said, Dane is utterly loyal to you, Lord Azrael. He would lead his last warrior into the teeth of the enemy to uphold the honour of his Chapter in your eyes.’
‘Let us hope that will not be necessary.’ Azrael leaned back, rubbing his forehead. ‘You are right, Dane is not the issue. Nakir will be more inquisitive.’
‘The perils of allowing Interrogator-Chaplains to become Chapter Masters,’ said the Librarian. ‘They always want to delve deeper than is required.’
‘You speak of divinations. What have you seen with your second sight, brother?’
‘The Hooded Death, but such doom is a constant companion to the Dark Angels. Of late, little else.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Disturbingly so. I wonder if it is connected to the warp effect conjured by Tuchulcha. The flattening of the warp might isolate us from the ripples of astropathic signals and the swirls of events yet to occur.’
‘We have enough uncertainty, adding the vagaries of warp sight to the list of obstacles we must overcome is unhelpful.’
It occurred to Azrael that there was another gifted with prophecy who might have more to say about the unfolding events. Not another living soul knew about the existence of Luther, Ezekiel included. There were already too many threads starting to unravel from the Unforgiven’s tapestry of lies to introduce that particular bombshell to the Chief Librarian.
‘Do you need me for anything else, brother?’ asked Ezekiel, noticing his superior’s distraction.
‘One moment more.’ Azrael clenched his fists on the tabletop. ‘I will not jeopardise the future of the Imperium to save this Chapter. We must hold higher regard for mankind. My instinct tells me that our enemies are seeking some means to reveal the nature of our history to opposing forces within the Imperium. If we fail here, if the true legacy of Caliban is made known, we must accept the judgement of our peers and allies.’
‘You would allow the Dark Angels to be executed?’
‘Not just the Dark Angels, all of the Unforgiven.’
‘Let us hope it does not come to that pass,’ said Ezekiel, shaking his head. ‘Better to concentrate on achieving victory than worrying about the consequences of failure. After all, this entire incident is based on the tales of a self-admitted traitor and an alien warp-sphere. I am simply engaging each problem as it arises and hoping that we will see an end to both of these inconveniences.’
‘Whatever Typhus desires here, we will deny it to him. Perhaps we have already succeeded. He runs now, afraid to test his might against the guns of the Rock. I do not expect he will find his bravery soon.’
‘That may be so, but if he seeks something here, he will return. We cannot mount such a strong guard forever, he knows that our eye must be drawn elsewhere in time.’
‘Why now? What circumstances have arisen that makes this plan, whatever it is, feasible now?’
‘Who can say?’
‘I was hoping that you might be able to.’ Azrael forced a smile. ‘You are my Chief Librarian, after all.’
‘Conjunctions, both astral and cosmic.’ The Librarian closed his eye and bowed his head. ‘We near the end of the millennium, a time of great upheaval and devastation. Long in our minds has this time loomed, bringing darkness and destruction. But should we survive the trials ahead, should the soul and strength of the Dark Angels endure the onslaught, we shall emerge into a new age of light, renewed and redeemed.’
The thought that it was possible that the burden of so much secrecy might be lifted from his shoulders lightened Azrael’s mood. There was always turmoil. There was always an obstacle to overcome. Such was the nature of penance. Redemption was not earned with words
and deeds, but with toil and blood.
‘Conjunctions, you say?’
Ezekiel opened his eye and nodded solemnly. Azrael stared at him, trying to pierce the inscrutable veil across his companion’s thoughts. His gaze flicked from one eye to the other and back. He was not sure which he disliked the most. The bionic eye made him feel like a target. The other eye burrowed into his soul even when lit by dry wit.
‘It is several days until we reach the Caliban nominal point,’ the Lord of the Rock said to cover his unease, looking away. ‘We will gather the full Inner Circle and apprise them of the plan.’
‘Which is?’
‘To hunt down Typhus and destroy him. Only then can we be sure whatever secret he seeks is safe from his clutches.’
Ezekiel accepted this without comment. Azrael could think of nothing more to say and dismissed the Librarian. Left on his own, the Supreme Grand Master turned his thoughts to the promises of Tuchulcha. Could it really be possible to save the Lion? And if so, what price was worth paying?
The Honoured Half-Dead
A piercing pain in the back of Telemenus’s head shocked him into wakefulness.
In a box. More accurately, a metal coffin.
Without legs he had no means to tell how long the box was, but it was just a little wider than his broad shoulders. Steel pins pierced the flesh and bones of his arm and chest, holding him in place. He could feel something rubbing at the small of his back – or at least, where it had once been. Just about the same area where the interface of his black carapace used to connect to his battleplate.
His head was similarly fixed, he discovered as he tried to turn towards the sound of drilling just behind his left ear. He came to the conclusion that the irritating noise was the bit on his skull.
His vision cleared further, his focus extending beyond his immediate confines. Smudges of red resolved into Techmarines. Three of them, including Adrophius. The white robes of two orderlies from the apothecarion flanked Temraen, whose own overalls were covered in viscera.
The Apothecary noticed that Telemenus was awake and glanced down at the grey and red filth staining his uniform.
‘Don’t panic, we haven’t removed more of you. The opposite, we’ve had to extend the nervous system and coronary network.’
‘It hurts,’ grunted Telemenus, feeling a stab of pain in his left shoulder. He could not see what was happening.
‘Unavoidable,’ said Adrophius, disappearing behind the Space Marine. ‘We need the nerve endings active to get the best connection.’
‘It feels like I have regrown my spine,’ said Telemenus. ‘It is not comfortable.’
‘A feedback effect from the neural system. When we’ve made a few more joins you’ll think you have arms and legs again. It allows for more stability.’
The pain returned, more severe than anything he had felt before, even the slash of the daemon’s blade through his body and the fire of the tainted infection. Every part of him was nailed, stretched, twisted and bent, as though he was a rubber doll being stuffed into a space too small to contain him.
The Techmarines and orderlies busied themselves with ratchets and suction pumps, fleshwelders, saws, soldering irons and small spanners. One of them inserted a screwdriver under Telemenus’s ribs and he felt his breastbone tightening. He hissed his disapproval and the Techmarine gave him an apologetic look.
‘It will get worse,’ warned Adrophius from out of sight. ‘Once we activate the integration systems your whole body is going to come alive. Literally your whole body, even the parts you no longer physically possess.’
‘I must warn you that there is a significant threat to mental stability,’ added Temraen.
‘You mean I might go insane?’
The Apothecary nodded and Telemenus wondered how bad could it really be? He had been sliced in two and dealt with the consequences. Being hooked up to a gunnery control system could not be so much worse.
And then he screamed.
Electricity pulsed through his brain, setting synapses afire. Blood vessels flared, atrophied matter brutally kicked back into activity. His eyes were fit to burst, the lights of the armoury bay a shocking white. His ears filled with such a clamour and wailing that he could not hear the rising shriek that passed through spittle-flecked lips that felt like they had been sprayed with acid.
The pain grew even worse, moving from the tip of his head down into his chest. His remaining heart thundered so roughly he thought his ribs would crack. His aorta seemed to swell to the size of the corridors of a battle-barge, the rush of blood surging through him making every artery and capillary vibrate with pain.
Rescued lungs filled with scalding liquid. He could feel a searing sensation moving down the bronchial tubes, coursing across the alveoli like an intense forest fire. He tried to breathe out, to extinguish the flame inside, but he had no diaphragm. Instead, pistons wheezed into life, ramrods pushing up into the flesh of his lungs, while intercostal muscles reinforced with bands of plasteel strained against the sudden pressure.
Telemenus felt something in his throat and coughed, the spasm sending ripples of agony down into his chest. A gobbet of phlegm the size of his fist flew out of his mouth. Taking in a deep draught of air, he smelled anti-infection spray. The taste of his battle-brothers’ sweat rolled over his tongue like thick droplets. The iron tang of blood filled his thoughts.
Just when he thought the pain would subside, the technological phantom limbs returned, sending shockwaves back up through his nervous system. Two waves of agony met along his spinal column, crashing together to create new heights of pain.
Telemenus caught himself panting, taking hurried breaths between bellowed obscenities. He wanted to claw at his tormentors, to tear out their eyes and rip off their arms for what they had done to him. He thrashed at his bonds but he and the coffin were one and the same, indivisible.
The Techmarines and Apothecaries shared worried glances and spoke quickly to each other, but their words were lost in the roar of blood that filled Telemenus’s ears. Through the din he thought he could hear alarms shrieking a two-tone warning. He did not know whether they concerned him or some exterior threat. Temraen reacted with a syringe almost as thick as Telemenus’s thumb, jabbing a ten-centimetre reinforced needle into the Space Marine’s chest.
For an instant cool water washed away the fire. Cleansing. Calming.
But only for an instant.
The pain flooded back, crackling along missing toes, shattering shin and thigh bones that only existed in his mind. His pelvis, now in memory, split apart with a harrowing crack, then turned to dust inside his flesh.
He started to lose sight of his fellow Dark Angels. A mist concealed them, scarlet, obscuring their faces. A terrible foreboding filled him as the shapes of his brothers receded into the red fog.
He was alone, left to die in torment in a whirlwind of blood.
Telemenus tried to form words with lips that refused to obey. Kill me. He tried to beg. Kill me. He tried to howl. Kill me!
Despair gripped him, his mad anger becoming a terrible grief. Fear had been expunged by the attentions of the Tenth Company sergeants and the Chaplains. Hate had been poured into the void left behind. Hate for the enemy. Hate for the mutant, heretic and alien. That hate turned upon Telemenus now, left with no other course to follow.
Arbalan was correct, he was nothing special. Worse than that, he was a coward. A loathsome wretch of a hollow creature. He had failed as a Space Marine and brought shame to all that wore the colours of the Dark Angels.
‘I cannot abide the selfish,’ said the Emperor, appearing as a raven with wings of dripping blood, merged with the tornado that surrounded Telemenus.
‘I am sorry,’ sobbed the Space Marine. ‘I am not worthy.’
‘I choose who is worthy,’ the Emperor replied.
The bloody whirlwind slowed and stop
ped, dissipating into a golden fog. The Emperor became an eagle during this transformation, wrapping His wings about Telemenus. His feathers soothed the pain that made the Dark Angel’s limbs tremble.
Limbs.
Telemenus looked at himself, fully formed, created anew by the miracle of the Emperor. Where the wings passed, ravaged flesh became perfected. He felt the hot breath of the Emperor on his face, His golden beak centimetres from his nose.
‘You will survive this,’ the Emperor insisted. ‘Prove to me that you are strong. Uphold your oaths.’
Telemenus relaxed.
In that moment his fears and cares and pain lifted like sparkling motes from his body, a shimmer of silver that drifted away with each breath from his lips.
His vision returned briefly, eyes still swimming with fluid. Telemenus thought he recognised the face of Belial staring down at him. It was either another hallucination of his madness, or the Deathwing commander had come to gloat at the final failing of his most disappointing warrior.
Even as these dark thoughts clouded his mind, Telemenus felt himself falling back into the grip of dread. He fixed upon the stern expression of the Grand Master, forcing himself to remember the first time they had met after Telemenus’s ascension to the Deathwing.
He laughed. What a fool he had been. He had denied his faults in the face of the Grand Master, rather than accepting the truth of the accusations. Pride. Pride that Belial had seen. Pride that Arbalan had detested.
Where now was pride? In a ravaged body about to become the organic component of an anti-torpedo battery or lance array?
Pride made him fight. Pride brought the pain.
Telemenus released the burden of his pride with another silvery exhalation. It mattered not where he was, what he did. He was a Dark Angel. He would serve the Lion’s shade and the Emperor in whatever way was required. It was not in his power to choose the noble fate.