by Guy Haley
‘War! War! War!’ chanted the Blood Angels. ‘For the Emperor! For Sanguinius!’
A drip of red fell into Luis’ soul, spreading ripples across a thickening pond of vitae. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he collapsed.
War. War beat out its drum across the void. From one side of the galaxy to the other, the sons of the Emperor fought each other. Luis witnessed the heartbreaking spectacle of warriors meant to ensure mankind’s survival tearing each other to pieces while dark gods laughed.
He fell through the sky, a burning portent of better times.
He crawled from the wreckage of a wrecked suspension pod onto the surface of a blasted world, his child’s mind full of bewilderment and fear. Young wings twitched on his back.
He wrestled a titanic being in the sky, whose radiated fury threatened to eclipse all reason.
He was the lord of hosts, and the galaxy shouted his name in approbation.
The desert stretched before him. The fate of his people sorrowed him.
His true father stood before him, radiant in His majesty.
A dark face snarled out its hate as it drove down at him with a weapon cloaked in diabolical power.
Signus. Ultramar. Melchior. Kayvas. Murder. Names of worlds he had never visited whirled through his mind. The memories of Sanguinius flooded into him, bound up with his genetic code, suffusing themselves into the meat of his body. He wrestled daemons, for he knew them for what they were. He battled traitors he had once loved. Rage and sorrow fought their own battles in his heart. He nursed suspicions that his father had known, all along, and grew introverted and bitter.
And yet he could not speak of these things, for he was the Great Angel, the most perfect and most beloved of the Emperor’s unruly sons. His sorrow went unvoiced. And always the rage, the terrible desire to kill and slay at the edge of his consciousness which he dared not reveal to any being. He looked to his brother Angron, and feared what he might become. He turned away, but the anger never left him. In his soul, mercy and violence hung in precarious balance.
Sanguinius became Luis, and Luis became Sanguinius. His existence, so much lesser than the primarch’s, was subsumed and fragmented. For a time, Luis ceased to be, and he was plunged into the awful life of a demigod. His ordeal went on forever, a string of waking nightmares that came at him in no logical order, assailing him with fresh horrors. The sainted Sanguinius’ life was one of despair, and despair awakened in Luis’ breast in response.
Finally, finally, he was at the end. The red of his own blood obscured his vision. The face of Horus stared down at him in triumph, but it was not Horus who regarded him through his brother’s eyes, but something far older and far worse. His wings were broken. His body shattered. Pain and sorrow were all that remained to him.
The vision rippled. Luis was aware of himself again. He was sinking through a thick ocean of blood, down and down, pushed at by the pulsing current of a titanic, dying strength. The beat of a giant heart, Sanguinius’ heart. It pulsed slowly, rippling the seas of vitae into galaxy-engulfing vortices. The pulse slowed further. Then it stopped. The ocean of blood stilled, and Luis sank away.
Gentle dark enwrapped him.
The pulse started again, weaker, doubled. Two hearts pulsed.
Luis was no more.
He awoke trapped and thrashing. The space he occupied was tilted off vertical and barely larger than his body, and full of liquid tainted red by bloody fragments. A dim light shone through the murk. His limbs were enmeshed in strings of cables. Embedded needles tore free, stinging him as he flailed. On his face was a mask of some kind, and in panic he tore it off and screamed. Liquid flooded his lungs. He was drowning, and he fought against it with furious might, hammering against an unyielding surface, not realising that he was not dying, but breathing freely.
Mechanical noises sounded beneath his feet. The liquid gurgled and the level dropped. His eyes were uncovered. The light came from a tiny round window in front of him. Outside, shapes obscured by streaks of gore moved. Peeping chimes sang urgently around him. Blinking the thick liquid from his eyes, he tore at the pads on his chest and the needles piercing his arms and thighs, and roared like a beast. Memories of betrayal and death tormented him, and all around was blood and more blood.
Locks disengaged. Light cracked around the wall in front of him. Warning tocsins blaring nasally, the wall lifted, revealing itself to be a lid, and the space he occupied a sarcophagus of ribbed metal. The coffin tilted upright. Hands reached for him. He batted at them and snarled. His teeth were sharp and pierced his lips. The hands slipped on his skin.
In a flood of bloodied amniotic medium, he fell forwards onto a shining floor of basalt. Tormented faces screamed in his mind. A great claw descended towards his wings and broke them. Sorrow filled his heart. He knelt there on all fours, panting, as the woes of another’s life tortured him. Red tinged his vision. An unquenchable thirst gripped him. All sensation had been replaced by pain. He no longer knew who he was.
‘This one fought all the way through the transformation,’ a vox-moderated voice said. ‘Another for the tower.’
‘Or a warrior of fated promise,’ said another. A hand rested gently on his shoulder. His head snapped round, teeth bared. The hand remained in place. ‘Brother Dante. Brother Dante, can you hear me?’
For a moment the hand withdrew a fraction, the owner alarmed at the savagery of his charge.
Dante. An angel’s name. Dante.
The red mist receded. The last recollections of Sanguinius flickered from his mind. He was in a low-ceilinged hall, full of sarcophagi. Up and down the row, servitors and transhuman giants worked, hauling naked, massively muscled warriors screaming into the world.
He looked down at his hands and arms. They were enormous, swollen with ropes of muscle. Not his hands. Once he recognised that they were different, he remembered who he was.
‘I… am… Luis,’ he panted.
‘You are Dante now,’ said the voice. Dante blinked. A Space Marine in a white-and-red surgical suit bent down to him. ‘I am Brother Araezon. Do you remember me?’
‘Dante,’ he said. ‘You are Sanguinary Priest to the Tenth Company.’
‘And you are now a member of that company, and a neophyte to our Chapter.’ Araezon’s angelic face softened with relief. ‘You are aspirant no more!’
‘Arise, neophyte,’ growled the vox-voice. Chaplain-Recruiter Malafael reached out an armoured hand. Unlike the others in the chamber, he was fully armoured and masked.
Dante took his hand and rose. He felt strong, and massive. When he stood, he could look Malafael straight in his eye-lenses. He held up his hands in wonder.
‘What has happened to me?’ he said.
‘You have spent a year in the Hall of Sarcophagi undergoing the Blood Change,’ said Araezon. ‘After you fell asleep, you were implanted with the sacred seed of our lord, the Great Angel, activated with the infusion of his precious blood. You have passed your final test, and been granted the blessings of the Emperor’s knowledge. You are a Blood Angel.’
Others were coming out of their sarcophagi, smeared in jelly and blood. A tide of slick fluid rose over the floor.
He saw a half-familiar face. ‘Lorenz?’ said Dante. He could barely believe what he saw. Lorenz had changed almost beyond recognition. He was as tall as the other brothers, fully mature. Not a man, but more than a man, hugely muscled, his face so broad and heavy it pushed at the furthest definition of human. Yet at the same time it was radiantly handsome, stamped with the sharp beauty of Sanguinius. Strangest of all, underneath these changes, Dante could still see his friend.
‘Come, neophyte,’ said Araezon. ‘Come and see.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Dante, and was shocked at the bass rumble of his voice. He swallowed. The internal make-up of his throat felt different.
Araezon laughed. ‘You may call me brother, neophyte, as I shall call you, once your period in the Scout Company is done.’ He took Dante’s h
and and led him towards the far wall. The screams and shouts of second birth echoed through the chamber, but Araezon’s calm voice cut through it.
Against the wall was set a large mirror in a wheeled frame. Dante saw Araezon approach with a stranger. It took a moment for him to realise the powerful creature he saw was himself. The blemishes of life on Baal had gone. His skin was alabaster smooth, and pale as if it had never felt the touch of the sun. His face was no longer his own, but a blend of Luis’ and Sanguinius’. Araezon released his hand and Dante stood in front of the reflection in silent amazement. Only his eyes remained unchanged in appearance: pale amber, his father’s eyes. But they looked out from the face of an angel.
He would learn in later life that not all Space Marines were made this way. Outside of the bloodline of Sanguinius, such rapid maturation processes were unused, the specialised organs that made a Space Marine implanted gradually over a period that stretched into years. Not so for the Blood Angels. All the organ seeds were put in at the same time, save the last.
‘I am an angel?’
‘Almost,’ said Malafael. ‘Years of training await you. If you survive that, you will be implanted with the black carapace. That final gift is what truly defines us. It is into the carapace that the interface ports are set. Without it, our battleplate is useless.’
Lorenz was led to his side, then another new brother. They were silent, too awed to talk.
A frantic thundering came from one of the sarcophagi. Alarms rang, and Malafael grunted and half ran towards the sound. Dante saw now that there were bodies on the floor, three of them, draped in blood-red sheets.
Malafael stopped by a sarcophagus. It began to open, but the lid was bashed aside and sent skidding across the floor. The brother within burst out, lines and wires ripping from his skin. With clawed hands he flew into one of the servitors tending to his awakening. With inhuman strength he wrenched the cyborg’s head back, and buried his long fangs into the wizened grey flesh of his throat.
Malafael raised his boltgun and fired. The boom as it detonated made the newly formed Blood Angels flinch. The crazed neophyte fell to the floor, headless.
‘The process does not always work,’ said Araezon sadly. ‘You have had your first glimpse of a beautiful but savage world. Come. You must eat. You have been sustained by complex philtres for the last year, but your body requires meat and wine.’
The dead neophyte was covered over. A blood thrall, tiny now, led them from the hall.
Dante could not keep his eyes from the man’s neck, where the skin throbbed to the pulse of his heart.
The pained cacophony of rebirth followed them, resounding throughout the fortress-monastery, and continued long into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FIVE GRACES
457.M40
The Arx Angelicum
Baal
Baal System
Dante woke from horrifying dreams to hard artificial light. He blinked away visions of twisted masks, and groaned. His eyes opened upon a maze of pipework and conduits. Lumen balls of long, stiff pipe mounts hummed in square formation. The small windows of the barracks were red and dull.
Dante’s mouth was dry and tasted of metal. His forearm slid from his forehead. He blinked and wiped at an itchy crust on his face. His fingers came away powdered with gritty blood. He had bitten his arm in his nightmares. Clusters of paired holes, scabbed over already, marred his newly perfect skin.
‘Still night,’ groaned Lorenz. He rolled over on his cot, bare feet slapping the cold floor.
Dante sat up. His awakening yesterday, and the lavish feast that had followed, seemed like a dream.
A clarion fanfare rang through the bare dormitory.
‘Neophytes!’ A familiar voice boomed at them. ‘You will rise. You will dress. Your training begins today. Wait at the table to break your fast.’
‘Captain Verono,’ said Ristan.
‘He’s our lord now,’ said Dante. ‘I suppose it will be him that trains us.’
‘What do you know about it?’ said a queasy looking neophyte. He staggered past with a couple of others to the plasteel ablutorials sticking out from the wall and was noisily sick.
‘I’m so damn thirsty,’ said Lorenz.
‘There’s water,’ said Ristan, rubbing at his eyes and pointing to a large glass sphere embedded in another wall.
‘It’s not just thirsty – it’s more like hungry and thirsty at the same time…’ Lorenz’s eyes lost focus.
‘It could be worse – you could be them,’ said Duvallai, walking by. He pointed at the sick neophytes. The sharp smell of vomit spoiled the air.
‘Can we smell better, or does that really stink?’ said Dante, wrinkling his nose. He could taste the neophyte’s meal in the scent, though it did not make him nauseous as he might expect. He got up and went for water. His body was strange to him; its proportions threw him off, and although he felt inherently more graceful than he had been, he kept misjudging where his limbs were and smacking into things. The damage to the objects was significantly greater than any he did to himself. He barked his shin on a cot, bending its frame and sending it scraping across the floor. A bruise flowered on his skin and faded just as quickly. He spent a minute dumbly staring at it, until Laziel slapped him on the back.
‘Are you going to move or stay standing there?’ he said peevishly. Dante’s anger rose shockingly fast. He brought it under control and stood out of the way.
‘My thanks… brother,’ mumbled Laziel, abashed at his tone. ‘I’m desperate for something to drink.’
Dante went with him to the water orb. One hemisphere bulged out of the wall, the other went into the rock. He laid his hands on the cool surface. The glass was flawless. Amazement at the smooth beauty of the vessel and the amount of water it held pushed his other thoughts away.
‘There must be two hundred gallons of water in here,’ he said.
‘More, I reckon. I’ve never seen so much clean water in one place,’ said Laziel. He opened the tap, filling a silver cup to the brim. Shining bubbles swam up the glass ball. He drank and gasped appreciatively. ‘Sweet, too.’ He took another three cups, gulping each faster than the one before. He stopped halfway down the third with a frown, and walked away.
Dante understood Laziel’s actions soon enough. No amount of water could quench his thirst. Each drink he took worsened the sensation, and he left troubled and still thirsty, his belly stretched taut with water. A line of other Scouts waited behind him, all of them complaining of thirst.
In a locker bearing his Scout number, Dante found a set of loose-fitting fatigues in blood-red. The neophytes dressed, and in ones and twos they took their seats at the barracks’ refectory tables.
Of the hundreds of youths who had set out to take part in the trial on both moons, forty-eight had made it through to the very end. Their conversation died on their lips. Their first day as angels, and they had no idea what was expected of them.
‘What now?’ whispered one of them.
‘It’s not like wisdom has landed on our shoulders,’ said Duvallai. ‘What are we supposed to do?’
They looked at one another. Lorenz grinned at Dante. ‘Funny, isn’t it? We’re in the heaven of the Blood Angels!’
The doors banged open. ‘I fail to see the humour in your situation, neophyte,’ said Araezon as he strode inside. He wore his day robes. Blood thralls followed in a double line, pushing carts stacked with covered plates. ‘You have won a great honour. We will see if you are worthy of keeping it. If you are incapable of understanding that, perhaps you are not worthy.’
Lorenz’s face fell. ‘Sorry, my lord.’
Araezon stopped at the head of the table. ‘You will be taken to your first training session shortly. First, you must eat. When you have passed the first stages of training, you will be allowed to join the other neophytes and the rest of the Chapter in the Great Hall. Before that, you will take your meals in here.’
‘There are others?’ asked so
meone.
Araezon gave him a hard stare. ‘Of course there are. They proceed through their training. You are at the primary stage. Eventually, you shall pass this and advance to the secondary. After that, you will be inducted as Scouts into the Tenth Company, and serve the Chapter on the field.’
The blood thralls put bowls in front of them. Cautiously, the boys removed the covers and sniffed suspiciously.
‘What by Terra is this?’ said Duvallai. A number of others shared his frown, but others looked at the slop before them with relish. The bowl was filled with thick blood. Dante poked at the hunks of raw meat bobbing in it with his finger.
‘Blood gruel,’ said Araezon. ‘Your bodies are still changing. This food contains the necessary nutrient balance, along with certain preparations, to make sure that your Emperor’s gifts finish their maturation processes.’
‘What animal is it from?’ asked Ristan.
Araezon ignored him. ‘Who here vomited this morning?’
The neophytes who had been ill tentatively raised their hands. It was comical. They had the bodies of demigods, but the mannerisms of boys.
‘See me after you have eaten. I shall test you all again later today. Do not be concerned. It is a matter of chemical imbalance and is easily rectified. Now eat,’ said Araezon.
Dante bent his head close to the gruel and breathed in deeply. Flashes of insight sparkled in his mind’s eye. Things that grew that yearned for the earth, animals taken from their flock. The ecstatic face of a man bled white. He shook his head. Some boys pushed away the food. Dante would have been one of them, but the smell of blood fired his appetite so that it exceeded his revulsion, and before he knew it he was spooning the raw mix into his mouth with his fingers. His thirst burned his gullet, then quickly subsided as the first cold blood and meat hit his stomach. He turned to Lorenz, his mouth full and his face smeared with blood.
‘My thirst is gone,’ he whispered. Other neophytes remarked on the same thing, and on how good the food tasted, and the barracks filled with their chatter. The acoustics in the room were terrible, muffling some sounds and turning others painfully sharp.