Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  BL: Are there any areas of Warhammer 40,000 that you haven’t yet explored that you’d like to in the future?

  JS: The problem with the Worlds of Warhammer is that there’s so much cool stuff out there, it’s almost an embarrassment of riches! There are many interesting places to go to for stories, compelling characters, epic events. It’s hard to pick just one thing. I think what interests me the most are the mysteries and lost histories of the Warhammer 40,000 universe – those are the kind of places I’d like to visit and explore in fiction.

  BL: What are you reading at the moment? Who are your favourite authors?

  JS: At this moment, I’m reading a modern thriller by an author called Tod Goldberg, and before that I was reading my colleague Aaron Dembski-Bowden’s Horus Heresy novel The First Heretic. As for favourite writers, my list is huge: Joe Haldeman, John Brunner, William Gibson, Phillip K. Dick, Ian M. Banks, Richard Morgan, Stephen Baxter, Rudy Rucker, Neal Stephenson, Carl Hiaasen, Douglas Adams, Larry Niven, Robert Heinlein are just some of them...

  BL: Which book (either BL or non-BL) do you wish you’d written and why?

  JS: I feel kinda strange answering that, because if I’d written it, it wouldn’t be the book that I have such fondness for; but if I had to pick, I’d say Frank Herbert’s Dune or Joe Haldeman’s The Forever War. Both of them rank among the best military science fiction ever put to paper.

  Phalanx

  Ben Counter

  Chapter 3

  The cell block had been built for the use of the Imperial Fists’ own penitents. When battle-brothers believed themselves guilty of some failure, they came here, to the Atoning Halls. They knelt in the dank, cold cells lining the narrow stone-clad corridors and prayed for their sins to be expunged. They begged for suffering with which to cleanse themselves, a suffering regularly gifted to them by the various implements of self-torture built into the ceilings and floors of each intersection. Nerve-gloves and flensing-racks stood silent there, most of them designed to be operated by the victim, so that through pain he might drive out the weaknesses that had led to some perceived failing.

  The cells had not been built with locks, for all those who had spent their time there had done so voluntarily. But the Halls of Atonement had locks now. Its current penitents were not there by choice.

  ‘Salk!’ hissed Captain Luko. Luko was chained to the wall of his cell, with just enough freedom in his bonds to stand up or sit down. Like the rest of the Soul Drinkers imprisoned in the Halls of Atonement, he had been stripped of his armour, with his wargear kept somewhere else on the Phalanx to be used as evidence in the trial.

  ‘Captain?’ came Sergeant Salk’s voice in reply. The Soul Drinkers officers had mostly been locked in cells far apart from one another, but the Halls of Atonement had not been built to contain a hundred Astartes prisoners and so it was inevitable two would end up in earshot.

  ‘I hear something,’ said Luko. ‘They are bringing someone else in.’

  ‘There is no one else,’ replied Salk. ‘They took us all on Selaaca.’ Though Luko could not see Salk’s face, the despondency, tinged with anger, was obvious in his voice. ‘They must be coming to interrogate us. I had wondered how long it would take for them to get to you and me.’

  ‘I think not, brother,’ said Luko. ‘Listen.’

  The sound of footsteps broke through the ever-present grinding of the Phalanx’s engines. Several Space Marines, and... something else. A vehicle? A servitor? It was large and heavy, with a tread that crunched the flagstones of the corridor.

  Luko strained forwards against the chains that held him, to see as much as possible of the corridor beyond the bars of his cell. Two Imperial Fists came into view, walking backwards with their bolters trained on something taller than they were.

  ‘Throne of Terra,’ whispered Luko as he got the first sight of what they were guarding.

  It was a Dreadnought. It wore the deep purple and bone of the Soul Drinkers, but to Luko’s knowledge no Dreadnought had served with the Chapter since he had been a novice. He had thought the Chapter had not possessed any Dreadnought hulls at all.

  The Dreadnought’s armour plating was pitted with age. Its weapons had been removed, revealing the complex workings of the mountings and ammo feeds in its shoulders. Even so the half-dozen Imperial Fists escorting it kept their guns on it, and one of them carried a missile launcher ready to blast the Dreadnought at close range.

  As it stomped in front of Luko’s cell, the Dreadnought turned its torso so it could look in. Luko saw that its sarcophagus had been opened partially, and he glimpsed the pallid flesh of the body inside. Large, filmy eyes shone from the shadows inside the war machine, and Luko’s own eyes met them for a moment.

  ‘Brother,’ said the Soul Drinker inside the Dreadnought, his voice a wet whisper. ‘Spread the word. I have returned.’

  ‘Silence!’ shouted one of the Imperial Fists in front of the Dreadnought. ‘Hold your tongue!’ The Space Marine turned to Luko. ‘And you! Avert your eyes!’

  ‘If you wish me blinded,’ retorted Luko, ‘then you will have to put out my eyes.’

  Luko had a talent for eliciting a rough soldier’s respect from other fighting men. The Imperial Fist scowled, but didn’t aim his gun at Luko. ‘Maybe later,’ he said.

  ‘Daenyathos has returned! said the Dreadnought’

  Luko jumped forwards against his chains. ‘Daenyathos!’ he echoed. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Daenyathos!’ came another voice, then another. Every Soul Drinker’s voice was raised in a matter of seconds. The Imperial Fists yelled for silence but their voices were drowned out. Even the bolter shots they fired into the ceiling did not quiet the din.

  Luko did not know what to call the emotions searing through him. Joy? There could be no joy here, when they were facing execution and disgrace. It was a raw exultation, a release of emotion. It had been pent up in the Soul Drinkers since they had seen Sarpedon fall in his duel with Lysander, and now it had an excuse to flood out.

  Daenyathos was alive! In truth, in the depths of his soul, Luko had always known he was not truly dead. The promise of his return seemed written into everything the legendary philosopher-soldier had passed down to his Chapter, as if the Catechisms Martial had woven into it a prophecy that he would walk among them once more. Amazingly, impossibly, it seemed the most natural thing in the galaxy that Daenyathos should be there when the Chapter faced its extinction.

  Only one voice was not raised in celebration. It was that of Pallas, the Apothecary.

  ‘What did you do?’ shouted Pallas, and Luko just caught his words. They gave him pause, even as his twin hearts hammered with the force of the emotion.

  ‘What did you do, Daenyathos?’ shouted Pallas again, and a few of the Soul Drinkers fell silent as they considered his words. ‘How have you fallen into their hands, the same as us? Have you come here to face justice? Daenyathos, warrior-philosopher, tell us the truth!’

  ‘Tell us!’ shouted another. Those words soon clashed with Daenyathos’s name in the din, half the Soul Drinkers demanding answers, the other half proclaiming their hero’s return.

  Daenyathos did not reply. Perhaps, if he had, he would not have been heard. The Imperial Fists hauled open a set of blast doors leading to a side chamber that had once been used to store the volatile chemicals required by some of the torture devices. Its ceramite-lined walls were strong enough to contain the weaponless Dreadnought. The Imperial Fists marshalled the Dreadnought inside and shut the doors, slamming the thing that called itself Daenyathos into the quiet and darkness.

  Outside it took a long time for the chants of Daenyathos’s name to die down in the Halls of Atonement.

  More than three hundred Astartes gathered in the Observatory of Dornian Majesty. Most Imperial battlezones never saw such a concentration of Space Marines, but these Astartes were not there to fight. They were there to see justice done.

  The Observatory was one of the Phalanx’s many follies, a viewing dome
built as a throne room for past Chapter Masters, where the transparent dome might afford a dramatic enough view of space to intimidate the Chapter’s guests who came there to petition the lords of the Imperial Fists. Vladimir had little need for such shows of intimidation and had closed off the Observatory for years.

  It was one of the few places large enough to serve as the courtroom for the Soul Drinkers’ trial. The ship’s crew had built the seating galleries and the dock in the centre of the floor, an armoured pulpit into which restraints had been built strong enough to hold an accused Astartes. The Justice Lord’s position was on a throne the same height as the dock, facing it from the part of the gallery reserved for the Imperial Fists themselves.

  The whole court was bathed in the light from the transparent dome. The Veiled Region was a mass of nebulae that boiled in the space outside the ship, nestling stars in its glowing clouds and swamping a vast swathe of space in the currents of half-formed star matter. Kravamesh hung, violet and hot, edging the courtroom in hard starlight.

  The first in had been Lord Inquisitor Kolgo’s retinue of Battle Sisters, ten Sororitas led by Sister Aescarion. They knelt and prayed to consecrate the place, Aescarion calling upon the Emperor to turn His eyes upon the Phalanx and see that His justice was done.

  The Imperial Fists 4th Company took up their positions, a hundred Imperial Fists gathering to serve as honour guard to their Chapter Master. Next the Howling Griffons filed in, Borganor scowling at the Observatory as if its tenuous connection with the Soul Drinkers made it hateful.

  The other captains were next. Commander Gethsemar of the Angels Sanguine was accompanied by a dozen Sanguinary Guard, their jump packs framed by stabiliser fins shaped like white angels’ wings and their helmets fronted with golden masks fashioned to echo the death mask of their primarch, Sanguinius. Gethsemar himself wore several more masks hanging from the waist of his armour, each sculpted into a different expression. The one he wore had the mouth turned down in grim sorrow, teardrop-shaped emeralds fixed beneath one eye. Siege-Captain Daviks of the Silver Skulls wore the reinforced armour of a Devastator, built to accommodate the extra weight and heft of a heavy weapon, and his retinue counted among them his Company Champion carrying an obsidian sword and a shield faced with a mirror to deflect laser fire in combat.

  The Iron Knights were represented by Captain N’Kalo, an assault captain who wore a proud panoply of honours, from a crown of laurels to the many honoriae hanging from the brocade across his chest and the Crux Terminatus on one shoulder pad. He led three squads of Astartes, his Iron Knights resplendent in the personal heraldry each wore on his breastplate and the crests on their helms. The Doom Eagles came in at the same time, represented by a single squad of Space Marines and Librarian Varnica. Where Varnica stepped, the stone beneath his feet bubbled and warped, his psychic abilities so pronounced that the real world strained to reject him, even with his power contained and channelled through the high collar of his Aegis armour.

  Finally, Captain Lysander led in Chapter Master Vladimir Pugh. Vladimir took his place on the throne – as the Justice Lord of this court he was the highest authority, and it was at his sufferance that any defendants, witnesses or petitioners might speak. Lysander did not stand in the gallery, for he was to serve as the Hand of the Court, the bailiff who enforced his Chapter Master’s decisions among those present. Lysander looked quite at home patrolling the floor of the dome around the dock, and his fearsome reputation both as a disciplinarian and a warrior made for a powerful deterrent. A Space Marine’s temper might move him to leave the gallery and attempt to disrupt the court’s proceedings, even with violence – Lysander was one of the few men who could make such an Astartes think twice.

  The tension was obvious. When Lord Inquisitor Kolgo arrived to join his Battle Sisters, the sideways glances and murmured comments only grew. Space Marines were all soldiers of the Emperor but many Chapters did not have regular contacts with others and some developed fierce rivalries over the millennia. The Imperial Fists had both retained the livery of their parent Legion, and been feted above almost all other Chapters for the service to the Imperium – no little jealousy existed between them and other Chapters who coveted the honours they had been granted, and no one could say that such jealousy was absent from the court.

  Fortunately, nothing papered over such schisms like a common enemy.

  Sarpedon was led in, restraints binding his mutant legs, by a gang of crewmen marshalled by Apothecary Asclephin. Asclephin had conducted the investigations into Sarpedon’s mutations – indeed, his findings were part of the evidence that would be presented to the court.

  Sarpedon was herded into the dock, and his restraints fixed to the mountings inside the pulpit. Sarpedon still had the physical presence to demand a hush from the court in the first moments they saw him. He was bent by his restraints and he lacked the armour which was the badge of a Space Marine, but even without his mutations he would have demanded a form of respect with the scars and bearing of a veteran and the defiance that refused to leave his face. The inhibitor hood clamped to his skull just made him look more dangerous. One of Lysander’s primary duties was to watch Sarpedon carefully and subdue or even execute him at the first suggestion that the Soul Drinkers Chapter Master was using his psychic powers.

  Sarpedon’s eyes passed across the faces of the assembled Space Marines. He recognised Borganor and Lysander, and Vladimir he knew by reputation. Kolgo he had never met, but the trappings of an inquisitor sparked their own kind of recognition. Several times the Soul Drinkers had crossed paths, and swords, with the Inquisition. The Holy Ordos had sent their representative here to take their pound of flesh.

  Then Sarpedon’s eyes met Reinez’s.

  Brother Reinez of the Crimson Fists was alone. He had no retinue with him. His armour was pitted and stained, the dark blue of the Crimson Fists and their red hand symbol tarnished with ill maintenance. Reinez wore a hood of sackcloth and his face was filthy, smeared with ash. Strips of parchment covered in prayers fluttered from every piece of his armour.

  There was silence for a moment. Their eyes had all been on Sarpedon, and none had seen Reinez enter.

  ‘You,’ said Reinez, pointing at Sarpedon. His voice was a ruined growl. ‘You took my standard.’

  Reinez had been the captain of the Crimson Fists 2nd Company during the battles with the xenos eldar on Entymion IV. The Soul Drinkers had taken the company standard in combat. Reinez was not a captain any more, and his trappings were those of a penitent, one who wandered seeking redemption outside his Chapter.

  ‘The court,’ said Vladimir, ‘recognises the presence of the Crimson Fists. Let the scribes enter it in the archives that–’

  ‘You,’ said Reinez, pointing at Sarpedon. ‘You took my standard. You allied with the xenos. You left my brothers dead in the streets of Gravenhold.’

  ‘I fought the xenos,’ replied Sarpedon levelly. ‘My conflict with you was sparked by your own hatred, not my brothers’ wish to kill yours.’

  ‘You lie!’ bellowed Reinez. ‘The life of the xenos leader was taken by my hand! But it was not enough. None of it was enough. The standard of the Second was taken by heretics. I travelled the galaxy looking for an enemy worthy of killing me, so I could die for my failings on Entymion IV. I could not find it. I turned my back on my Chapter and sought death for my sins, but the galaxy would not give it to me. And then I heard that the Soul Drinkers had been captured, and were to be tried on the Phalanx. And I realised that I did not have to die. I could have revenge.’

  ‘Brother Reinez,’ said Vladimir, ‘has been appointed the prosecuting counsel for the trial of the Soul Drinkers. The role of the Imperial Fists is to observe and administer justice, not to condemn. That task belongs to Brother Reinez.’

  Sarpedon could only look at Reinez. He could scarcely imagine that any human being in the Imperium had ever hated another as much as Reinez obviously hated Sarpedon in that moment. Reinez had been shattered by the events on Entymion
IV, Sarpedon could see that. He had been defeated and humiliated by Astartes the Crimson Fists believed to be heretics. But now this broken man had been given a chance at a revenge he thought was impossible, and if there was anything that could bring a Space Marine back from the brink, it was the promise of revenge.

  ‘The charges I bring,’ said Reinez, ‘are the treacherous slaying of the servants of the Emperor, rebellion from the Emperor’s light, and heresy by aiding the enemies of the Imperium of Man.’ The Crimson Fist was forcing down harsher words to conform to the mores of the court. ‘The punishment I demand is death, and for the accused to know that they are dying. By the Emperor and Dorn, I swear that the charges I bring are true and deserving of vengeance.’

  ‘This court,’ replied Vladimir formally, ‘accepts the validity of these charges and this court’s right to try the accused upon them.’

  ‘Chapter Master,’ said Sarpedon. ‘This man is motivated by hate and revenge. There can be no justice when–’

  ‘You will be silent!’ yelled Reinez. ‘Your heretic’s words will not pollute this place!’ He drew the power hammer he wore on his back and every Space Marine in the court tensed as the power field crackled around it.

  ‘The accused will have his turn to speak,’ said Vladimir sternly.

  ‘I see no accused!’ retorted Reinez. He jumped over the row of seating in front of him, heading towards the courtroom floor and Sarpedon’s pulpit. ‘I see vermin! I see a foul stain on the honour of every Astartes! I would take the head of this subhuman thing! I would spill its blood and let the Emperor not wait upon His justice!’