Angels of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

There followed a minute and more of uneasy silence. Farith wanted to be excused, regretting the decision to question his lord. That was another reason for the Wings, to act as confidants and advisors, away from the burden of command and the structures of hierarchy. He should have sounded out Danaes instead, allayed his concerns with those that understood them. It was not in the nature of the Dreadwing to question the motives of their commanders, openly or otherwise. Their existence was predicated on the removal of obstacles without recourse to explanation or justification.

  ‘I do not know,’ confessed the Lion, not looking at his subordinate. ‘It seems likely. Guilliman does not gamble. Sound theoretical principles applied with practical acumen. Imperium Secundus is the surest guarantee we have against Horus. Sanguinius is essential to Imperium Secundus. Guilliman’s theory, which we must put into practice.’

  ‘It is that I don’t understand, my liege,’ Redloss told the Lion.

  The primarch straightened, his manner guarded. He drummed his fingers on the rail for a couple of seconds.

  ‘That was not really the answer you were looking for, was it?’

  ‘No, my liege.’

  Farith gestured towards the Space Marines assembling in the levels beneath them. The tramp of their feet was blotted out every few seconds by the reverberating clang of launch-bay doors shutting.

  The sound reminded Redloss of the underground shelters beneath the castle where he had grown up, used when a particularly large beast or a host of the nephilla came upon the settlement. The doors would crash closed like those of a tomb and the people would quail inside, wondering to what destruction they would emerge.

  But the sound comforted him. It was not his mausoleum they signified, but the slamming coffins of his foes.

  ‘Who are we supposed to fight, my liege?’ he asked. ‘We are an army, not a policing force. If we drop on Macragge it is to wage a war. Who is the enemy?’

  The Lion looked at him with a frown, of confusion more than anger, though the twitch of his lips signified some irritation.

  ‘I have already told you, Curze remained here while we chased across the Five Hundred Worlds.’

  ‘Yes, my liege, but how do you plan to find him?’

  His primarch smiled then, and Farith Redloss did not enjoy the expression. It was as bitter and cold as a Northwilds wind.

  ‘Curze will reveal himself. He cannot hide forever. When he does, we will be waiting, and not Guilliman nor any other will stand in my way.’

  The Lion stalked away, leaving Farith with an overwhelming sensation of relief. It was short-lived as the primarch’s words hit home. The crash of feet across the ship was drawing to a close but their martial beat rang true in Redloss’ thoughts, filling him with foreboding, but also excitement.

  ‘First gunship away,’ Stenius reported over the command vox. ‘Destination, Macragge Civitas.’

  It was time for Redloss to head for his transport.

  We have come. We are death.

  THIRTEEN

  The returning son

  Caliban

  ‘I remember when all of this was forest.’ Zahariel did not look at his companion while he spoke, but across the landing aprons, craneworks and gantries of Aldurukh’s western approaches.

  ‘Joyous,’ replied Astelan. ‘I love the reminiscences of old Caliban.’

  ‘I remember the Stormbirds passing overhead. I was sat on a destrier alongside Nemiel, the Lion and Luther when Midris made planetfall here.’

  ‘Your life has been noteworthy, Sar Zahariel,’ said Astelan, though without conviction.

  It was still strange to hear the ancient Calibanite honorific from the lips of the Terran. Like most of the Earth-born that had been returned to Caliban, Astelan had adopted many of the customs and forms of his primarch’s world – save for the long braids of hair he continued to wear. Zahariel wondered if he detected a hint of sarcasm in the use of the term, but a glance at Astelan showed that the Chapter Master was staring into the cloudy sky, paying little regard to the Librarian beside him. Astelan’s attitude might have been mistaken for boredom but Zahariel knew better. He did not need his psychic sense to pick up the other Space Marine’s apprehension.

  ‘The return of our battle-brothers is a cause for celebration, but you wear the face of a speared razorboar.’

  ‘If you remember so well the day the First Legion came to this world, tell me how did you feel then?’

  ‘Scared,’ admitted Zahariel. ‘Overawed.’

  ‘Uncertain?’

  ‘That too, but later. It was too much to comprehend, but I felt the burden of history descending along with those monstrous metal birds.’

  ‘A fundamental context challenge.’

  ‘If I remember the teachings of the Iterators correctly, that would be a situation that completely overwhelms a society or individual by revolutionising their contextual appreciation of the universe. Yes, if you mean an event that completely redefined the context of Caliban. One moment, we were a world alone in an uncaring galaxy. The next, the latest addition to the Imperium, one of more than a quarter of a million worlds united under the Emperor.’

  ‘Now, imagine what it was like for the Lion…’

  Zahariel said nothing, lost in the memory of that world-changing event.

  ‘The burden of history settles again,’ said Astelan. He pointed to the west. A dark shape could be seen breaking the cloud line, like a massive eagle in silhouette. ‘Do not be so sure it bodes well, Sar Zahariel. Keep your wits about you.’

  ‘You think me giddy with excitement?’

  ‘I think you have too much enthusiasm for the arrival of our brothers. Do not be so quick to welcome fresh change.’

  The thud of boots and whine of armour caused Zahariel to turn. A column of armoured Dark Angels, fifty strong, ascended the steps to the broad platform of the main landing apron and arrayed themselves in several lines, bolters held across their chests.

  ‘What is this?’ the Librarian demanded. ‘Are you expecting trouble? Do you know something I do not?’

  ‘Relax,’ said Astelan, though he did not heed his own advice as he looked pensively back up at the approaching Stormbird. ‘It is an honour guard. Our conquering brothers deserve suitable welcome.’

  Now Zahariel was agitated, unsure whether he trusted Astelan’s explanation. He wished Luther was here to greet the arrivals in person, but the Grand Master had declared it would be better that the emissaries from the Legion were met by fellow Space Marines. Now that he thought about it, this explanation seemed weak to Zahariel.

  ‘On the instruction of Sar Luther?’ he asked Astelan.

  ‘On my own initiative,’ replied the Chapter Master. Astelan looked at Zahariel and smiled, a genuine look of humour that punctured the fog of nerves that had clouded Zahariel’s thoughts for the last few moments. ‘You should try using yours, now and again.’

  Zahariel smiled back, suddenly feeling foolish for his doubts and paranoia.

  ‘We have long waited for this moment,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘The years have passed slowly, Sar Astelan, and my patience has been worn thin by their nagging erosion. Forgive my doubts.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive, brother. We are all anxious to hear some solid news of what passes beyond the sight of Caliban. Much has happened in that time.’

  ‘Do you think the rebel Legions have been defeated?’ The hope sprang up in Zahariel’s heart unbidden and he was surprised just how dearly he wished it to be true. ‘Is this unseen war already over?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Astelan replied. ‘If the campaign progressed so well, the supply drops might have resumed. No, I believe the war continues.’

  Deflated, Zahariel waited in silence as the Stormbird turned in a wide arc and began its final approach for landing, circling once around the landing station before descending amidst the roar and flame of plasma jets. It settled heavily on the apron a few dozen metres away, a billow of hot air and dust gusting over the assembled Dark Angels.

&nb
sp; With a whine and a clank, the ramp descended and a solitary figure walked down the gangway.

  At first Astelan did not recognise the Space Marine advancing with swift strides across the ferrocrete. The new arrival wore armour of black but with a dark green shoulder pad. His face was a mess of scar tissue down the left side; three distinct ragged cuts slashed from nose to a missing ear. Astelan noticed that his left arm moved awkwardly and detected the additional hiss of bionics amongst the clank and whine of armour. His hair was dark and close-cropped, but it was the warrior’s eyes, a distinctive deep blue, that brought forth the memory of his name.

  ‘Chapter Master Belath.’

  The other Space Marine looked at him with a hint of a sneer. ‘Astelan.’

  Neither of them spoke for several moments, their stares locked together.

  ‘Salutations, Chapter Master,’ said Zahariel. The Librarian stepped forward and raised a fist to his chest with a nod. ‘Sar Luther bade us to welcome you back.’

  ‘Sar Luther?’ Belath turned his penetrating gaze to Zahariel. ‘Many are the customs of the Order that were adopted by the Dark Angels, but the titles of rank are not amongst them. Matters seem to have… regressed in the absence of our primarch.’

  ‘There have been changes–’ said Astelan. He was going to say more but Zahariel cut him off.

  ‘What news from the war? How soon should we expect the return of the Legion?’

  ‘I bring messages for Luther, no other,’ Belath said. ‘I will speak only to him.’

  Zahariel was nonplussed but Astelan was not surprised by this admission. He stepped to one side and gestured for Belath to accompany him.

  ‘Come with us and we will conduct you to Luther’s chambers directly.’ Astelan spoke the words with formality, biting back what he truly wanted to say. ‘We will also have ready the quarters for your warriors. How many will we be hosting?’

  The three of them strode across the landing apron, the guard of honour falling in behind as they passed onto the steps.

  ‘That will be unnecessary,’ Belath said. ‘They will remain in orbit ready to depart. Our stay will be as short as feasible.’

  ‘And the warriors on the transports?’ asked Zahariel. ‘How many have you brought back?’

  ‘The transports are for taking, not bringing. Their crews are adequately supplied for the moment.’

  Astelan kept his silence at this intriguing piece of information, but Zahariel became quite animated.

  ‘So we are to be reunited with the Legion? Long we have hoped to be returned to the direct service of the Lion.’

  A Land Raider waited for them on a ferrocrete roadway at the bottom of the steps. Astelan stopped at the open access ramp and turned, preventing the other two from entering.

  ‘You did not answer my brother’s question, Belath. Has the Lion sent for us?’

  ‘Such matters are to be discussed with Luther. Those are my orders.’ Belath waited for a moment and, when Astelan did not step aside, pushed past him. ‘The sooner you convey me to Luther, the sooner this will be resolved.’

  Zahariel frowned as he looked at Astelan, about to speak. The Chapter Master dissuaded his companion with a brief shake of the head.

  ‘As you say, Chapter Master.’ Astelan stepped into the interior of the Land Raider and sat on the bench opposite Belath. ‘It will not be long before Sar Luther hears the truth of the matter.’

  Zahariel hesitated before choosing a seat opposite Astelan, a little distance from Belath. The Librarian’s grim expression was in stark contrast to his excitement of only a few minutes ago.

  With a hiss of hydraulics, the ramp closed, pitching the trio into a gloom broken only by dim red lights and display icons. The Land Raider’s engines growled into life and the tank lurched into motion.

  The three sat in silence for several minutes, each keeping his own thoughts. It was Belath who broke the quiet, attempting to sound conversational with his tone.

  ‘As we descended, my Stormbird happened to pass over the Northwilds.’ Astelan caught Zahariel directing a sharp glance in his direction but kept his gaze firmly on Belath. ‘The arcology seemed in some disrepair. It looked to me as though the forest is growing back.’

  Astelan detected accusation behind the casual words but Zahariel answered first.

  ‘A regrettable turn of events. Caliban has suffered some instability in the absence of the Lion. The arcology w–’

  ‘The situation was dealt with,’ Astelan stepped in, directing a warning glare at his companion. ‘A small but noisy insurrection amongst the administrators and workers brought in from other worlds.’

  ‘I see,’ said Belath. ‘That would explain some of the damage I witnessed.’

  ‘Witnessed whilst merely passing over on your descent?’ said Astelan. ‘Your eyes are keen, Chapter Master.’

  ‘It seems a waste to let a whole arcology fall to ruin as the consequence of a “small but noisy” insurrection. I hope that there have not been any other failings.’

  ‘Choose your words with more respect,’ snapped Zahariel. ‘The Lion left Caliban in our care and we have not shirked our duty.’

  ‘No insult was intended, Brother-Librarian.’

  ‘Let Belath keep his accusations veiled, Sar Zahariel.’ Astelan laid his hands in his lap as he sat back on the seat. The Land Raider’s mechanism detected his presence and extruded two arms to disconnect his backpack from the rest of his war-plate. With a hiss of pneumatics the powerplant ascended into the space at the top of the alcove. ‘His intentions will be made clear to Sar Luther and we shall know the truth in turn.’

  Belath said nothing, turning his gaze towards the driver’s compartment. The journey continued in heavy silence.

  The closer they came to the gates of the Angelicasta, the more Zahariel could feel Belath’s growing unease. Visibly nothing had changed in the Chapter Master’s demeanour, but within the walls of his mind there was agitated activity. It was as though Zahariel could hear the sound of rushing feet and babbling voices, although the source of the sounds was hidden.

  With his newly broadened perspective the Master of the Mystai could see the power of Caliban like a fog inside the Land Raider, pooling around himself, Astelan and Belath. With just a little effort Zahariel formed the energy into a hair-like strand, a tiny amount of power shaped by his will. He guided its tip towards Belath’s skull, pushing it ever so gently between the protective bars erected by the Legion’s training. Brute force would have alerted the Space Marine to the intrusion, but the slender tendril slipped comfortably into Belath’s thoughts.

  The contact lasted only a moment before the tendril shrivelled away, rebuffed by Belath’s subconscious defences. But in that split second Zahariel touched upon the turmoil within the Chapter Master. He glimpsed something, a spray of blood arcing in the air. Belath guarded the memory as though it were a stronghold containing a precious treasure.

  No, Zahariel realised – he kept it chained inside like the most terrible prisoner.

  Even so, at the moment of connection Belath glanced at Zahariel and in the instant that their eyes made contact the psyker felt a pulse of a single overwhelming emotion: guilt.

  It was very specific, directed at Zahariel personally. Whatever it was that absorbed Belath’s thoughts, it had nothing to do with Luther, Astelan or the wider situation of the Dark Angels. The Mystai wondered what could make a Space Marine feel guilty. The answer came swiftly, but he did not want to believe it.

  ‘Tell me something, Master Belath,’ Zahariel asked, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Do you have news of my cousin, Nemiel?’

  Belath’s look confirmed Zahariel’s suspicion before the words had left his lips.

  ‘Nemiel is dead, brother.’ And there again was that twinge of guilt.

  It was the lot of a Space Marine to fight and likely die in the service of the Emperor. Zahariel and Nemiel had long ago acknowledged the possibility, as had all warriors of the Legiones Astartes. Why would Belath attach suc
h significance to the news, unless he perhaps bore some responsibility for the event?

  ‘I see.’ Zahariel forced himself to remain calm although his hearts were beating faster. ‘That is most regrettable. How did my cousin fall?’

  There was a pause before Belath replied, which to Zahariel spoke more than the words that followed. Why did the Chapter Master have to think so deeply on such a straightforward question?

  ‘We were aboard the Lion’s flagship, caught in a breach between our world and the warp. Entities attacked us, creatures made of the warp itself.’

  Zahariel caught another flash of an image, seeping through the mental defences of the Space Marine. Nightmarish figures made of fire and of blood, hounds with scaled skin and a monstrous bird-like creature with two heads. And then the splash of blood again, thick globules hanging in the air like small feast-day decorations.

  ‘That was not an answer,’ said Zahariel. ‘How did my cousin die?’

  ‘It is not for m–’

  Belath’s reply was cut off as Zahariel launched himself across the compartment of the Land Raider. Electrical circuits and light fittings exploded as the Master of the Mystai seized Belath either side of his head and summoned the power of Caliban. Like a wave the energy crashed up from the ground and swirled into the transport. Tracks locked and drives froze as psychic power crackled across the ceramite hull, bringing the massive engine to a skidding stop.

  Belath was shouting something, grabbing at Zahariel’s wrists, but he did not listen. His golden stare drilled down into the Chapter Master, blades of psychic power visible only to him piercing the thoughts of the Dark Angel.

  ‘What happened to Nemiel?’ Zahariel roared.

  Belath tried to fight the onslaught but his will broke in moments, shattering like a wall breached by the shell of a Vindicator siege tank. As his defences collapsed, Belath’s mind opened like a broken gate, revealing the road to the answer Zahariel sought.

  He plunged the daggers of his thoughts into the target.

  He stood at the edge of the strategium, monitoring the communications channels. Everything was in turmoil, the Invincible Reason thrown astray and unshielded into the warp by a Night Lords attack. The flagship’s systems were ablaze with reports of creatures materialising across dozens of decks. From the external monitors came a disconcerting cackling and giggling, punctuated by bass growls and monstrous bellows muted by distance. The hull throbbed with the surging power of the naked warp.