Fabius Bile: Clonelord

by Josh Reynolds

  Fulgrim looked at him. ‘Host?’

  ‘Well, yes. The obvious intention is that a cloned husk will be to hand, but, in the event such a thing isn’t possible, any suitable trans­human corpus will do. Igori and the others are fully aware of the requirements, and can perform the appropriate procedure, if necessary.’ He looked at Fulgrim. ‘My work will continue, whatever setbacks arise. Until it is finished, and I can rest.’

  ‘Was that why you made me?’ Fulgrim indicated his body. ‘My frame is superior to yours, in every way. My mind processes information more quickly, my body is all but immortal – I know these things instinctively. Will you replace me, Fabius?’ It was not an accusation, so much as genuine curiosity, and for a moment, Fabius was taken aback. He laughed, to hide his unease.

  ‘The thought honestly never occurred to me. No, I have no desire to trade in my familiar surroundings, even for a superior form.’

  ‘Then why did you make me?’

  Fabius hesitated. He looked away, studying Fulgrim’s distorted reflection in the polished surface of the nutrient tanks. In the end, he decided on honesty. ‘At first, it was to see if I could. Then, it was because I thought it was necessary.’ He let slip a bitter chuckle. ‘We were lost, in those days. Without true guidance. Reacting, instead of acting. Descending into barbaric excess, even as we shed all pretence of organisation and discipline. Without Fulgrim – without you – we were rudderless. Some tried to steer the ship, regardless, myself included. We failed.’

  He looked at Fulgrim. ‘I created you to save us. As I created your brothers – Horus, Lorgar, even Angron. I thought that by giving our brothers back their fathers, I might halt the Legion Wars and unite us once more.’

  ‘Why?’

  Again, Fabius hesitated. He smiled sadly. ‘I thought there was something worth saving. Now, I know better. We are failed experiments. All that remains is to learn what can be learned, and begin again.’

  Fulgrim looked at his hands, watching the play of inhuman muscle beneath perfect flesh. ‘I am… a failure?’

  Fabius looked at him. ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘There may yet be use for you. I simply have not decided what it is.’

  Fulgrim curled his fingers into fists. ‘I would lead them, if you let me. I can see how to do it, how it must be done. I can lead them to perfection, if you give me the chance.’

  ‘Your predecessor thought much the same.’

  ‘I am not him,’ Fulgrim said firmly. He looked at Fabius, violet eyes burning with intent – and need. ‘I read his words – the records of his deeds. I will never be him. I would not kill my brother. I would not betray my father. I will not succumb to such imperfection. Not once. Not again.’ The force of his words thrummed through Fabius, unsettling him. Here was the youthful Phoenician, come again. Here was the demigod he remembered kneeling before, on the fields of Chemos.

  But there were oceans between that moment and this. Fabius had endured the storm such words conjured before, and though forceful, they had little power over him now. He shook his head. ‘Perhaps. There may soon come a day when we depart this vale of shadows together, you and I. And on that day, I may build a Legion for you, so that you might do as you were born to do.’ The thought had a certain appeal. He laughed. ‘Maybe my New Man needs a new Legion to safeguard him in his infancy, as we safeguarded his predecessor. There is a certain poetry in that, I think.’

  Even as he said it, he felt a sudden twitch of disquiet. The knot of pain in his stomach flared suddenly, digging its claws into the meat of him. He grimaced and braced himself against the examination slab. The chirurgeon hissed and a flush of pain inhibitors flooded his system, dulling the ache. He coughed. Blood speckled his lips. ‘Already,’ he murmured. Fulgrim reached for him.

  ‘Teacher?’

  Fabius waved him back. ‘Yes. Nothing to worry about. It will pass. It is like an old friend, at this point. I almost welcome it.’ He looked at Fulgrim. ‘Pain concentrates the mind wonderfully. It is only in its excess that it becomes debilitating.’ He gestured to Kasra.

  ‘As our guest is soon to discover.’

  Alkenex stood on the command deck, watching the stars of the Eastern Fringe slide by on the viewscreens. The stars were strange here, and full of horrors undreamt of, even in the Eye. Ghost ships drifted through the dark and quiet, emitting phantom signals from crews long dead. Eerie sonic pulses from the black reaches, like the radar screeches of some vast, unseen colony of chiropterans.

  ‘Strange is the night, eh, Palos?’ He glanced at his subordinate. Palos Gyr had come through the battle with Red Scimitars intact, and with new notches carved into the chest-plate of his armour.

  Palos chuckled. ‘We are far beyond the Hyades now, brother.’

  Alkenex smiled. The words belonged to an old poem. Or perhaps a song. Some tatter of words that had haunted the Remembran­cers of the 28th Expedition, in more innocent times. He remembered how it had flown from one to the next, from singer to sculptor, from painter to dancer, like some outlandish mimetic virus, until it had at last extinguished itself in the frenzies of that final performance by the composer, Kynsca.

  Some among his brothers held that those words were a message from somewhere else, though what that message might mean, and who it might be from, none could agree. Alkenex did not concern himself with such musings. He had missed Kynsca’s final performance, and the thought of it brought an exquisite ache to his soul, even now.

  An interrogative blurt issued from the unmoving mouth of Bile’s strategium overseer. The crystal-faced creature twitched, as if in alarm. A moment later, it calmed. ‘What’s got into it?’ Palos muttered. His hand fell to his axe. He didn’t care for the creature. Alkenex couldn’t blame him. Fabius’ monsters could turn even the most depraved of stomachs.

  ‘Off hand, I’d say that.’ He pointed to one of the viewscreens. A black blotch, darker than the void around it, occupied the centre of the screen. He barked an order, and the image was magnified. A kilometres-long obelisk of some dark stone floated through the stars. It was blank of feature or ornamentation, smooth on all visible sides.

  ‘What in the name of the Phoenician is that?’ Palos asked.

  ‘The records call it the Ymga Monolith,’ Alkenex murmured, studying the celestial edifice. The immense obelisk seemed to draw in the light of the surrounding stars, as if it were not simply a structure but instead a hole in space and time. ‘Though as to why, I cannot say. It is a name with no story.’ It had existed since before man took to the stars, and would likely exist long after. Alkenex half-suspected that it was debris from some cosmic conflict far beyond the reckoning of humanity, or even the gods themselves.

  The universe was older than they thought, and wilder by far. He himself had led expeditions into the crumbling remnants of xenos empires that had risen and fallen in time out of mind, and seen pictograms carved into the inner hollows of comets that depicted things beyond the conception of any human mind.

  Time and space were part of the same incalculable ocean, swelling and receding, leaving flotsam and jetsam in their eternal wake. And it was that ocean that the Phoenix would burn away, when he had at last awoken from his slumber. Reduce it to steam and shadows, so that something new and better might rise in its place.

  ‘It looks… strange,’ Palos grunted. ‘Like it is there, but not. A mirage of starlight.’

  ‘It is real enough. But something about it baffles the ship’s sensors.’ Alkenex leaned forward, over the rail. ‘Fulgrim made mention of it, once. Apparently one of the two Forgotten Ones was said to have led an expedition to its black heart, in the early centuries of the Great Crusade. Though why he was out this far, and what he might’ve found, was never recorded.’ He frowned. ‘Probably for the best. The galaxy has devils enough without letting out whatever resides there.’

  ‘If you’re finished admiring the scenery, we have things to discuss,’ Merix
said from behind them. Alkenex turned, restraining a flicker of annoyance. Merix stood before the hololith projector, studying schematics.

  ‘And what things might those be, Merix?’

  ‘Savona must be dealt with.’ Merix leaned through the holo-projection, thrusting his scarred head towards Alkenex. ‘She is actively working against us. She tried to kill me.’

  ‘Given what you’ve told me of her, I’m not surprised. She would have, sooner or later.’ Alkenex shrugged. ‘She may be working against us, or she may have simply seized an opportunity. Either way, I refuse to be distracted.’

  Merix stepped back. Though his mouth was hidden behind his respirator, Alkenex could tell he was frowning. ‘She is more than a distraction.’

  ‘To you, perhaps. Not to me.’

  ‘And what of Arrian? Is he a distraction as well?’

  Alkenex grunted. ‘I tested the World Eater. He is skilled.’

  Merix’s eyes narrowed. ‘Can you beat him?’

  ‘No. But I can kill him.’ Alkenex smiled thinly. ‘I am not so arrogant as to demand that every battle be a thing of worth. Some are merely means to an end. Arrian must die, but I do not have to be the one who kills him. So long as his skull, and the information it contains, is intact, I will accept a lesser death for him.’

  Merix laughed harshly. ‘And how many will die, ensuring his lesser demise?’

  ‘As many as it takes.’ Alkenex gestured. ‘This is war, Merix. Warriors die in war. They die to achieve the objectives of their betters. That was the first lesson Fulgrim taught us, after our first rebirth. And it has served us well.’

  ‘And what is your objective? Your real one, I mean.’ Merix gave a rasping laugh. ‘Whatever you say, I do not think it is Eidolon’s.’

  ‘Careful, equerry. You overstep yourself.’

  ‘And so? We have always done so. That is the nature of our Legion.’

  After a moment, Alkenex chuckled. ‘There is something in what you say. Fine. I intend to kill Fabius Bile. Once and for all.’

  ‘You hate him. Why?’

  Alkenex hesitated. Then, with a shrug, he said, ‘The simplest reason of all – envy.’

  ‘What could you possibly envy in that wretch?’ Merix asked incredulously. ‘The colour of his cankers?’

  Alkenex laughed softly. ‘No. I envy the love our father showed him. Fulgrim loved Fabius first, and best. Oh, vainglorious fools like Lucius, or mad dogs like Eidolon, will tell you different, but I know. Kasperos Telmar knew, and Grythan Thorn. Even that brute Narvo Quin could see it, as plain as day.’ He peered down the length of his blade. ‘Lucius was his champion, Eidolon his greatest commander – but Fabius was his confidant. Fabius understood him in ways the rest of us were never allowed to. And for that, I envy him, and I hate him. And, Slaanesh willing, I will see him dead for it.’

  ‘If it is as you say, Fulgrim will not thank you for it.’

  ‘No.’ Alkenex ran the scalp along the blade again, polishing imperfections visible only to him. ‘He will not.’ His smile widened. ‘But he will forgive me. He will see that it is for the best.’

  ‘Or he will kill you where you kneel.’

  Alkenex shrugged. ‘Either way, the Spider will precede me into hell. That is enough.’

  ‘You denied me battle. I am disappointed, Fabius.’ Diomat’s voice echoed through the cavernous chamber. Its reverberations caused filth-encrusted carvings of cherubs to slough from stony perches and tumble to the deck below, where they shattered into pieces. ‘I felt the ship quake. Saw the enemy blazing through the void. What of your promise?’

  ‘Forgive me, brother. There was little time to see to your release, in all the excitement. In any event, it was soon done. They are eager, our kin, but not so skilled as all that.’ Fabius picked his way through the debris. The shattered remnants of several servitors littered the nave of the chamber. Diomat had obviously vented his frustrations before Fabius’ arrival. Something to be thankful for, perhaps.

  His talk with Fulgrim had left him feeling unsettled. The proximity of a primarch, even a cloned one, was harmful to his certainties. It made the impossible seem possible, and the foolish seem wise. He did not know why he had felt the need to seek out Diomat. Perhaps he simply sought the counsel of one, like him, who had witnessed ancient glories and follies first-hand. Or maybe he simply needed someone to confess to.

  The Contemptor Dreadnought stood before one of the ornate observation ports, flexing his claws rhythmically. He turned from his contemplation of the filthy viewport. ‘I hear we have guests. And ­Flavius Alkenex, no less. One of the Phoenician’s young curs.’

  Fabius frowned. ‘And how did you hear that?’

  Diomat tapped the side of the sphere that passed for his head. ‘Forgive me. In my isolation, I have taken to eavesdropping on the internal vox-frequencies.’

  Fabius grunted. ‘And what else have you heard?’

  ‘He means to dispose of you.’

  ‘I’d think him more of a fool than I already do, if he didn’t.’ Fabius came to stand beside the Dreadnought. ‘I have no doubt our brother Eidolon put him up to it.’

  ‘Eidolon?’ Diomat emitted a harsh rasp of metallic laughter. ‘That sounds like him.’

  ‘It sounds like all of us. Save, perhaps, you.’

  Diomat turned slightly, gears and pistons groaning. ‘And what do you mean by that, brother? Another of your veiled insults?’

  ‘It is not an insult.’ Fabius hesitated. ‘Not this time, at least.’ He looked up at the ancient Dreadnought. At the pockmarked chassis and ­fading paintwork. The tarnished gilt, and the ruinous sigils carved into the ceramite plates by tormentors in centuries past. Like him, Diomat had endured much at the hands of their brothers. Like him, the Dreadnought bore the warriors of the Emperor’s Children little love. And yet…

  Suddenly uncertain, Fabius ran a hand through his hair. Some of it came away in his fingers, and he felt a twinge somewhere inside. There was no pain. Not yet. But it would come. It always did. He looked at Diomat again. ‘It is not an insult,’ he said again. ‘Eidolon believes that he has found the missing gene-tithe. We are on our way to acquire it now. He wishes me to make a Legion for him.’

  Diomat was silent for a moment. ‘And will you?’

  ‘I do not know, yet.’

  Diomat looked back up at the viewport. ‘Eidolon must be chewing out his guts in anticipation. Kasperos Telmar used to speak of him, often, when he came to torment me in my sarcophagus. Eidolon wishes to be Lord Commander Primus once more. To lead a renewed Legion to what he sees as its destiny.’

  ‘As far as I can tell that means serving as Abaddon’s lackey.’

  Diomat made a noise halfway between a grunt and sigh of creaking metal. ‘Why have you come, Fabius? Are you seeking absolution, or permission for something?’

  Fabius hesitated. Was this the correct course? He pushed the thought aside. He needed to talk. To unburden himself. And Diomat was the only one who might truly understand, mad as he was. ‘There is something else. I found something on Harmony. Someone.’

  Diomat did not look at him. ‘Who?’

  ‘Fulgrim.’

  The Dreadnought’s baleful gaze tore itself from the stars and fell upon him. ‘What?’ The word echoed through Fabius like soft thunder.

  ‘A clone. One of mine. Uncorrupted.’

  ‘Everything is corrupt. All that we were has become rotten to the bone.’

  ‘Not this. Not him. I am certain of it, now.’ Fabius closed his eyes. His skull ached with the weight of his worry. ‘Do you understand, Diomat? Do you see the possibility before me. Before us?’

  The great mechanical claws curled into fists and for a moment, Fabius wondered whether the Dreadnought intended to use them on him. Instead, Diomat turned and began to trudge away, towards the end of the nave, where the altar might once have
stood. ‘Is this some trick, Fabius? Some torment you’ve devised to plague my mind?’

  ‘If it is, it afflicts me as well, brother. No, I come to you, because I can go to no one else. I have long wondered why I spared you, Diomat. I have no real use for you. But now, I think it is because you remind me of what was once possible. Of the ideal that once drove us. The Hero of Walpurgis. The last true brother.’ He laughed sourly. ‘I’d wager that’s why Kasperos kept you alive as well. Like digging at an open wound.’

  Diomat reached out and crushed the skull of one of the restraint-servitors. It squalled piteously as it died, its voice echoing from the vox-grille in its reinforced torso. Diomat watched it slump over, and turned. ‘Aye. I am an open wound. A knot of agony. And may you all suffer well and long, as I have suffered. I died at Isstvan, brother. All that is left of me is a death-scream, echoing forever.’ He pointed a claw wet with blood and oil at Fabius. ‘You are ridiculous, brother. After all that you have done, and will yet do, you dare come to me speaking of newborn primarchs and Legions risen from the ashes? To what end? So that we might be absolved of our crimes?’

  ‘Not absolution. A new beginning.’ Fabius spat the words. ‘A clean slate, Diomat.’

  ‘Nothing that comes to fruition here, in this realm, is clean.’

  ‘He is perfect, Diomat. He is… innocent. He is Fulgrim, as he once was. As he should always have been. With him, with the gene-tithe, I might be able to rebuild the Emperor’s Children. I might be able to save us from the Phoenician’s madness… and my own.’

  Diomat said nothing. The Dreadnought stood, watching him silently. Fabius grunted. ‘Will you accompany me? We are invading a world that even Eidolon fears. It will be dangerous. Possibly even deadly.’

  ‘Perhaps I no longer wish to die.’

  Fabius studied the expressionless facade of the Dreadnought. ‘Then don’t. Come with me, Diomat. Help me retrieve our future – our past. Help me guide it, as you guided so many aspirants in better days. We can begin again, with the lessons of the past firmly in mind.’ Fabius held out his hand to the Dreadnought. ‘Help me save our Legion.’