Fabius Bile: Clonelord

by Josh Reynolds

  Diomat laughed. A grinding, wheezing sound that put Fabius in mind of a death rattle. ‘There is no beginning here, Fabius. No ending. Only the slow crawl of oblivion. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you will come to see what I have seen.’ He gestured with a claw. ‘But no matter. Perhaps I will see something new, under the sun of this world, before I meet my end.’ He looked down at Fabius.

  ‘Yes, I will accompany you.’

  Chapter nineteen

  Tomb World

  The broken bodies of Red Scimitars lay on examination slabs throughout the apothecarium. Most had already been harvested, but he’d ordered some set aside for more in-depth study. This he proceeded to do, taking scalpel and laser torch to battle-scarred meat. The chirurgeon lent itself to his efforts, bone saws whirring.

  It was a soothing sound, that whirr. It was the sound of progress. One could measure advancement by the sound of the blade striking bone. They were making good time. But the Eastern Fringe was vast, and they sought one world among millions. Alkenex had barely stirred from the command deck for days. As far as Fabius was concerned, he could stay there. Wolver made regular reports over coded frequencies, keeping him abreast of their course.

  Fabius glanced towards the tertiary strategerium in its antechamber. Hololithic star-maps flickered in and out of sight, as the cogitators constantly updated the sensory information. He would soon have a predictive destination, whatever Alkenex’s intentions. Once he knew where they were going, he could dispense with Eidolon’s lackey at his leisure. Until then, he could afford to make no move. Alkenex was the only one who knew where the gene-tithe was, and until he had its location, he couldn’t risk any harm befalling the prefect.

  Savona was in hiding, skulking through the lower decks. Khorag and the others were keeping themselves occupied with their own studies, and out of the way. Igori was holding the packs to their territory, and Alkenex had learned better than to disturb them.

  The status quo would hold for now. But the moment would come. He simply had to be ready. And quick. One of his hands began to tremble slightly. A muscle tremor, one of the early signs of the blight. He watched it until the palsy faded. ‘Stress,’ he grunted.

  He bent back to his task. He set aside his blades and caught hold of the exposed ribcage. Contrary to popular opinion, it was not one solid piece, but several. There was a surprising amount of flexibility to a Space Marine’s internal workings. The transhuman body was a work of art. He strained for a moment, and then the bones parted with a sharp crack. He had tools for this task, but he preferred using his hands, when he could.

  A hiss of disgust caused him to look up at Kasra, who attempted to stare a hole through him. The Space Marine had said nothing for days, hanging from his upright slab. As if silence were the only weapon remaining to him. And perhaps it was. Fabius couldn’t help but respect such determination, frustrating as it was.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘Your thoughts are as clear to me as my own, Kasra. You think this a desecration, when in truth, it is anything but. This is a sacred task, and one I take seriously. Our bodies are storehouses of knowledge, to which only a select few hold the keys. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not take every opportunity to add to that knowledge. Think of what wisdom might be lost, for want of study.’

  He turned back to the body and selected an augur loupe from the tray of tools nearby. The eyepiece hooked snugly into the cranial ports on the left side of his skull. Microfilaments extended through the neural linkways inside the meat of his brain, and a free-floating hololithic projection flickered into being, projected from the side of the loupe. The lenses of the eyepiece clicked as Fabius scanned the body. He picked up a section of harvested progenoid and studied it more closely.

  ‘Gene-markers from… multiple sources. Curious, that.’ Fabius examined the sample more closely as the chirurgeon continued its labours, flensing carapace from bone and cracking the latter so as to expose runnels of marrow for further testing. ‘The progenoid gland displays minute deviations from the assumed source… Hybrid? Possibly. Further study is essential. If they have perfected the art of hybridisation, it may prove a welcome addition to my own research, as well as a troubling harbinger as to the current state of the Imperium.’

  More samples were harvested, collected and catalogued. The body was broken down into its component parts with an alacrity that even he found startling, at times. The chirurgeon had learned well the art of bodily disassembly and performed its function with an ease and eagerness that was unsettling. The medicae harness clicked and hummed to itself as it worked, recording every moment for later study. Though whether this was for his benefit or its own, he was not entirely certain. He looked up at Kasra.

  ‘You are an enigma, my friend. And one I intend to unlock. Despite the pull of entropy, it appears the Adeptus Mechanicus has made certain advancements in the art of zygote cultivation.’ He gestured to the body. ‘How many foundings has it been, since the first, I wonder? How often have they changed the formula, in order to avoid watering it down overmuch?’ He paused. ‘I shall have to make a point of investigation. Perhaps there is something useful to be gained from interjecting myself into the process.’

  He looked at Kasra. ‘Tell me – what founding is your Chapter? Fifth? Tenth?’

  Kasra didn’t answer. Fabius hadn’t expected him to. He clucked his tongue in disappointment. ‘I do not enjoy this, you know. I find little pleasure in the pain of another. The senselessness of it offends me. Your agony is a distraction. The sooner you have accepted your limitations in this matter, the sooner we can both move on to more productive uses of our time.’

  ‘My – my most humble apologies for this waste of your time, Manflayer,’ his captive panted. The Space Marine grinned fiercely. ‘I am sure that I will not endure for more than another few weeks, at most.’

  Fabius frowned. In truth, he was already regretting the time he’d wasted keeping Kasra alive. The Red Scimitar refused to reveal anything. He seemed no more sensitive to pain than a brute animal, and had ceased screaming, out of spite. ‘Your bravado is commendable, if frustrating. Answer my question.’

  Kasra’s grin did not waver. ‘Go to whatever hell you were vomited up from.’

  Fabius removed the loupe and set it aside. He stood, anger boiling through him.

  It was always the same. Brutes and fools. Barbarians and ­shamans. They created more problems than they solved. The stubborn beast-flesh, creeping back and making a mockery of mankind’s progress. Of his progress.

  He picked up Torment. ‘Fitting words, I think, for your epitaph. I see now, like all your mongrel kind, you prize your honour more than your life, and you will hold to it, unto death. Thus, I see no reason to waste further time bandying words with a savage. Not when I can get all the information I need from the data-banks in your panoply.’ He lifted Torment. ‘And from your carcass.’

  He swung the sceptre down, intending to crush Kasra’s skull. Instead, the Space Marine ripped his arm free of the restraint, hand flashing out to catch Torment’s head on his palm. He grimaced in agony, but managed to free his other arm, jerking forward as he did so. Startled, Fabius stumbled back.

  The wounded warrior toppled from the slab as Torment was wrenched away. He was on his feet a moment later, and lunging for Fabius’ throat. Fabius scrabbled for his needler as his captive’s blunt fingers clawed at his jugular. He was slammed backwards, into a tray table, upending numerous instruments of inquiry. The scalpels and corers fell to the floor with a clatter. A big fist crashed against his face, scrambling his thoughts.

  Torment slashed out, but missed its mark. The Red Scimitar ­tackled him backwards, and they upended an examination slab, ripping it from the deck. Kasra caught his wrist and forced Torment away. The chirurgeon struck out, cutting and slicing, but the Space Marine drove another blow into the side of Fabius’ head, knocking him flat and bouncing his skull off of the deck. The ch
irurgeon, linked to his perceptions, spasmed in confusion. Fabius tried to roll away, to get to his feet, but suddenly found a broken length of restraint cable looped about his throat.

  The Red Scimitar hauled back on his improvised garrotte, pressing one knee against the back of the chirurgeon as he did so. ‘Would that I could pay you back for every hour of pain you have inflicted on me, butcher,’ Kasra growled. ‘But unlike you, I will be quick.’

  Fabius clawed at the torn metal biting into his neck, and tried to reach Torment, where it had rolled from his grip. Then, abruptly, the pressure was gone. He toppled forward, coughing. He turned, and saw the Red Scimitar struggling in Fulgrim’s grip. The primarch held the Space Marine’s head between his palms.

  As Fabius watched, Fulgrim slowly crushed his captive’s skull, with no more effort than a man might smash an egg. Blood ran between the clone’s fingers and dappled the deck. Kasra’s body twitched once, and then fell still. Fulgrim lowered the body, a dazed look on his face. ‘He was trying to hurt you,’ he said. ‘I did not mean to kill him.’ He looked down at his hands, in apparent bewilderment.

  Fabius hauled himself to his feet. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked, voice raspy.

  ‘Sickened. But also… elated.’ Fulgrim tore one of the sleeves from his suit and cleaned his hands fastidiously. ‘Is this how you feel, when you kill?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Fabius rubbed his throat and looked down at the corpse. ‘More so when it’s someone trying to kill me.’ He looked at Fulgrim. ‘You… did well. I am proud of you.’

  Fulgrim didn’t reply. Instead, he stared down at the body. ‘He is not one of us. He is like us, but not.’

  ‘He belongs to one of your brothers.’

  Fulgrim looked at him. ‘Which one?’ There was an eagerness in the words that Fabius found disconcerting. ‘Can I see them?’

  ‘No. No, they are dead. Or as good as.’ Fabius hurried to thwart this line of questioning. It would not do for Fulgrim to get it into his head to seek out his brothers. The ramifications of that were impossible to measure. Fulgrim frowned.

  ‘I think you are lying, teacher.’

  ‘And if I am, it is for your own good. This universe is a swamp of horrors, Fulgrim. If you wish to survive it, you must listen to me. I have only your best interests at heart.’ Fabius hesitated. Then, with a grimace, he reached out to the towering clone. ‘I only want you to be safe. Safe to meet your full potential.’

  Fulgrim looked down at Fabius’ hand, as it touched his arm, and then at his face. ‘Why? What am I to do? You have not said, and you will not explain what little I do know. You say you made me for a purpose, but you will not let me fulfil that purpose. You will not even let me out of this apothecarium.’

  ‘And yet you leave it anyway,’ Fabius snapped, drawing his hand back. ‘You have disobeyed me in that, at least, and more than once.’ He tapped a control on his vambrace. His armour’s systems were synched to those of the apothecarium, and at the tap of a button, a plethora of pict-feeds snapped to life on the viewscreens that studded the walls. On each of them, Fulgrim was visible – creeping through access tunnels, or striding silently through the darkened corridors of the ship, or even fraternising with the huddled vatborn. ‘I told you before, boy, I see everything.’

  Fulgrim drew himself up to his full height. ‘Then you will have seen that none know of my presence, save the vatborn. I have remained hidden, even from those I know would welcome me. My sons…’

  ‘They are not your sons!’ Fabius drove his fist into an examination slab, cracking it. The chirurgeon clattered in dismay, and he resisted its attempts to calm him. The anger was necessary. He could not allow himself to be cowed by the being before him. ‘They are his. Your sons yet slumber, their potential hidden away. But I will find them and I will bring them to you. I will give you a new Legion, but you must give me time.’

  Time. It always came down to time. He needed time. More time than the universe seemed willing to give him. Time to fix what was broken, to perfect the imperfect. To fix himself, so that he might see to the rest. Physician, heal thyself. But there was no time. No one understood. No one listened. Fulgrim – the original Fulgrim – had never listened. Had always done as he wished, whatever the cost.

  ‘I do not want a new Legion. I want to fix the one that is broken.’ Fulgrim leaned towards him, and Fabius tried to draw back, but to no avail. Fulgrim caught him by the shoulders, and Fabius felt his hearts stutter with an old, familiar arrhythmia. Fulgrim was perfect, and his perfection burned like the heat of the sun. ‘I can fix them, teacher. Fabius. I can teach them, as you have taught me. I can pull them back from the brink, if you but let me.’ His eyes glowed with determination as he spoke, and Fabius felt each word like a blow. He had almost forgotten the sheer power of a primarch’s voice.

  ‘Even now, they can be saved. I see it in them. I see the flicker of ancient fires – of honour, and heroism. What they were, they can be again, if you but let me go. Set me loose, Fabius, and I shall free your brothers – my sons – from bondage. I can do this. I know it, as surely as I know my name.’

  ‘You only know your name because I told it to you,’ Fabius snarled, shoving himself back and away. He stumbled over Kasra’s body, and staggered back, against the overturned examination slab. Fulgrim made to follow, but Fabius thrust Torment between them. ‘You only know what you know because I put it into your head. And still you question me? Still you defy me? Why can you not see that this is all for your own good?’

  He realised he was screaming, even as the words left his mouth. He turned away, at last allowing the chirurgeon to do its work. The insect-like arms folded over him, as the medicae harness hissed in satisfaction. His anger faded as the chemicals flooded his system. He had not lost his temper in decades.

  Fulgrim was staring at him. There was no expression on the clone’s face. Fabius tried to think of something – anything – to say. But no words came to him. Fulgrim broke the silence. ‘I hear you, teacher. And I understand.’

  ‘No. You do not.’ Fabius said it flatly. ‘Without a Legion – a loyal one – at your back, you will be easy meat for your enemies. For our enemies. Once they know of you, they will not rest until you are dead, or worse. Everything I do is to protect you. To save you, so that you might save others.’

  ‘I do not require protection.’

  ‘No. Perhaps not. Perhaps it is time. But I – ah.’

  A warning klaxon sang out, echoing through the apothecarium. The lumens flashed through the spectrum, settling on red. Alarms sounded in the tertiary strategerium. Pict-feeds flickered to void-view. ‘It appears as if we have arrived. I must go to the command deck.’

  Fabius pointed Torment at Fulgrim. ‘You will remain here, until I say otherwise. Until it is time for you to meet your destiny. Will you do this?’

  Fulgrim frowned, but nodded. ‘I will. I swear.’

  Fabius smiled. ‘Good.’ He turned to leave. ‘This is the day I change the ending of our story, Fulgrim. This is the day I finally fix the mistakes of the past. My mistakes, and yours. And you will thank me, when all is said and done.’

  Merix stood alone on the command deck. He watched the servitors at work without really seeing them. Everything hurt, and he was trying to find something worthwhile in the pain. The pale shades of Never­born clustered about him, drinking eagerly from the pall of agony that infused him. They whispered to him, trying to catch his attention, but he refused to listen. They were weak creatures, parasites, and he would not lower himself to treat with them. Not yet. Not until the torment of his body became unbearable.

  Then, perhaps. Perhaps he would give in, and shed his old flesh for something new. A snake, shedding its scales, as the Phoenician had done. Even as the Chief Apothecary did. Let the old hurts and failures slough away, to be forgotten. To become something new and better, that was a good dream. He looked at Wolver. ‘In our own ways,
we all grope towards perfection, don’t you think?’

  As ever, the strategium overseer didn’t reply. He wasn’t even sure if the creature was aware of his presence, save in the most general fashion. Merix grunted and flexed his cybernetic hand. Strange muscle tissue swelled and twitched, knotted up amidst the rusty mechanisms. He suspected the new tissue was the source of the ache. It had returned sensation to the limb, but only pain. Tiny daemons, unseen by anyone but him, clung to it, and played among the pistons and gears. He shook them off, knowing as he did so that they would only return to torment him later.

  But perhaps not for long. When the Legion was restored, when the Third marched once more as a singular body, perhaps his daemons would seek more pleasant entertainments. The need in him that drew them would be quenched, then. He could move forward, without leaving behind all that he was.

  ‘You must draw out his fangs… drain the poison… Only then will you heal…’

  The voice thrust itself through the fug of murmurings, insistent and loud. Merix twitched and looked around, trying to spot its owner. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then a pale shape moved across a nearby viewscreen, turning and spinning in a mad dance. As he watched in growing alarm, it danced from one screen to the next, growing larger or smaller with no seeming rhyme or reason.

  He could not see its face, only a mass of hair, and horns of glossy black, veined with red, rose over a narrow skull. Eyes like crimson mirrors met his own, wherever he looked, and the hull creaked beneath the weight of its hooves. It reached towards him with gilded claws, and suddenly it was not on the screens but behind him, talons ­scraping gently across his chest-plate as it pressed itself against him.

  ‘Look at me… look at you… all because we wished to become what we were meant to be,’ it sang softly. Its voice was like music, soft and insistent. ‘The future ate us, and we stepped deeper into its mouth…’