by Various
‘That was not my meaning, my lord,’ said the inquisitor icily. ‘I see that there is no more discussion to be had, though. I will take my leave, but must tell you this – just as you wish to prove your honour and loyalty, so does the Adeptus Terra wish to clear the Doom Legion of any blemish on its record. The tests will be rigorous, the sanctions harsh. Were you not entrusted with the stewardship of the Elusian Maze, you would already have felt the squeeze of the tithes. This is not my doing. I am but a humble servant of the Emperor, as are we all.’
‘Were it not for our duty over the Elusian Maze, inquisitor, we would all have joined the Abyssal Crusade. And what then? Could our combined strength have saved our brothers from damnation and visited swifter justice on the false saint? Or would we all have fallen? I ask myself this question daily. None can judge a son of Guilliman harder than he judges himself… You would do well to remember that.’
The inquisitor held the Space Marine’s gaze. He seemed infallible, as did every elder of the Adeptus Astartes, but one thing that Hassan knew after a hundred years in the Emperor’s service was that appearances were often deceptive. And yet Hassan merely nodded, and turned towards the door.
‘Farewell, Lord Konstantos. Until we meet again.’
He strode from the command centre, his cloak billowing out behind him and his servitors scurrying with him like children. Neither Konstantos nor Vincenzo said a word. Instead, they turned to the massive viewport that overlooked the main shuttle bay. It took Inquisitor Hassan some time to reach it, for the labyrinthine innards of the Faithful’s Deliverance were not easily traversed. The inquisitor’s honour detail loaded the precious cargo of gene-seed onto the shuttle. There was enough material to create fifty battle-brothers – Space Marines who would be sorely needed should the Chapter hope to rebuild after this disaster. But there was no arguing. The Adeptus Terra held the authority of the Emperor, and the Doom Legion would obey.
Konstantos breathed easier when the hangar doors opened and the inquisitor’s craft left the vast star fortress to return to the nearby frigate. Even from here, the Elusian asteroid fields could be seen, floating against a purple scar in the depths of space. The Doom Legion had been all but forgotten for so long, left here in this distant outpost, fighting endless wars against the denizens of this accursed sector. And this was the thanks they received… He clenched a powerful fist until he felt calm restored. Only when the Inquisitorial frigate Talon of Vigilance engaged its warp drives did either of the Space Marines speak again.
‘Let us end this sorry business,’ said Konstantos. Vincenzo only nodded.
‘I thought you were going to leave me in here forever. Is this any way to treat an honoured brother?’
The emissary’s words were calculating, but Konstantos did not rise to them. The Space Marine before him was garbed in dark green robes, like the Chapter’s own ceremonial dress, but stained and tattered. He smelled of death.
‘Captain Viktarion. You were once the first among us, and now look at you: fallen, piteous. You have invoked our ancient tradition of sanctuary, and you have parleyed with us, but negotiations are over. I have perhaps taken a step towards corruption, for I have shielded you from the Emperor’s justice. Am I like you? Could I become so? I think not, but I would rather you were far from my sight, so as not to remind us how far the mighty can fall.’
‘Pious words, but you have not shielded me from the Emperor’s justice, only from the justice of a weak man, who is like but an insect to warriors such as us. I offer you this chance once more, my lord. Join our cause, reunite brother with brother, and we will gladly follow you as we did before. Rebuild not just the Chapter, but a Legion in truth as well as in name, worthy to stand beside those mighty warriors of old, who still fight the Long War.’
‘Enough!’ Konstantos roared, losing control of his emotions for the first time in years; for the first time since the news had come that five of his companies had turned. ‘Never speak the name of our Chapter again. You call yourselves the “Vectors of Pox” now, do you not? You are a traitor and a heretic, and I will suffer not your presence here. Brother Werner, Brother Lazaric – take this… “emissary” to his ship and make sure he leaves.’
Konstantos and Vincenzo returned to the bridge, now fully staffed with Techmarines and thralls. They watched as Viktarion, once captain of the First Company, boarded his sleek fighter. They watched as the hangar doors opened. They watched as the renegade vessel flew out into the purple void. And they watched as it was blown apart by a fusion warhead from the Faithful’s Deliverance.
‘He has our answer,’ muttered Konstantos. ‘Emperor save us all.’
‘In the name of the Emperor, and of mankind, and of duty,’ intoned Chaplain Odon. Clad in newly polished armour, robed and carrying the symbols of his office, he led the funeral procession. His voice was metallic though his skull-helmet’s speakers.
‘The Emperor. Mankind. Duty,’ replied the brothers. There were twenty-five of them. Rearmost were twenty in two files, empty-handed but for one who bore a white veteran sergeant’s helmet in his hands. Four pall bearers were at their head. These, members of Voldo’s squad, remained silent, heads down, muscles straining under the weight of the armoured corpse of Sergeant Voldo on the bier. More than one was new to the squad, replacements for others dead, but that did not matter. They shared a bond with Voldo, whether they knew him well before or not.
Sergeant Arendo was the twenty-fifth, walking between the bier and Odon. Helmless, grim-faced, lips painted black with ash. This would not be wiped free until Sergeant Voldo was laid to rest and he would utter his first orders to squad Wisdom of Lucretius.
‘In the cause of the Emperor, the defence of mankind, and our oath,’ said Chaplain Odon.
‘We give our lives freely.’
With each response to Odon’s chanted words, the Space Marines descended a single step, stamping their armoured boots with a crash that resounded down the kilometre-long stairway and into the darkness at the roots of the mountain. They waited for the sound to die away, until only their breathing, the faint whining of their bone and blue armour and the spitting of the lumen globe hovering over Odon’s head remained.
Odon shattered the quiet again with his ringing voice.
‘Each to themselves, each to their duty. Each to the oath of Corvo.’
‘Our duty is ourselves, our duty is the fulfilment of Corvo’s Oath.’
Crash.
They neared the bottom. The catacomb of the Red Millennium was ahead, dug deep into the cold hard rock of the Heavenward Mountains as every catacomb had been and every catacomb would be until the Novamarines were extinct, and their fortress home finally finished.
‘Glory to the dead, glory to sacrifice, glory to the children of men.’
‘May they forever rule the stars.’
Crash.
‘We bring our brother home, may he rest peacefully until the final battle is begun.’
‘May the Emperor deem him worthy, and bring him again to war.’
Crash.
So it went on, until the entire procession had descended to the level floor of the catacomb. The corridor was a perfect rectangle, and if the light of the lumen globe were powerful enough, the Space Marines would have seen it stretch away until its sides, ceiling and floor were forced together by perspective.
Somewhere far ahead, a pair of servitors waited by a raw rockface for the ceremony to cease so that they might continue their digging. Only when the millennium turned would they stop extending the catacomb, and another would be begun. Perhaps ten thousand cold beds lined the walls already, perhaps more. They would never all be filled, but that was not the point.
Odon bowed his head. The brothers followed suit, moving with perfect synchronicity. They remembered Sergeant Voldo in life, they reflected upon his death; all but black-lipped Sergeant Arendo. His task was to stare ahead, past the feeble glow of the lumen globe and into the darkness, thinking on his duty. He did so unblinkingly.
Two minutes past. Odon sang, and started off again. The corridor reverberated to the dirge as they went slowly on, past the remains of hundreds of fallen brothers. The further they went, the more complete the remains became: dust to bone fragment, bone fragment to yellowed skeleton, yellowed skeleton to mummy, flesh desiccated in the dry air. Mummy to cadaver, cadaver to fresh corpse whose rot was slow in the aseptic tomb. The corpses were laid in no order, each was simply put into the next available slot. They came to the last such recess. Odon paused by it, finished his song, and looked within.
‘Rank, squad and company have no place here, in the halls of the dead.’
‘In life we are brothers. In death we are brothers,’ said the others.
Odon led the procession a short way to a chamber let off the corridor. Here the bier was placed, and with great reverence the men of Squad Wisdom of Lucretius removed Voldo’s armour piece by piece, passing the components down the column with care.
Voldo lay naked, his skin dark with tattoos from his ankles to the crown of his head. His bolter was replaced in his hands.
‘See the wounds that brought him low, and mark them well, for similar will one day pierce all our flesh,’ said Odon.
‘No scars form on the flesh of the dead.’
‘See ye also, the marks of pride. The flesh tally of his deeds.’ Odon pointed. ‘By these will the Emperor know his worth.’
‘And call him to war once again.’
Odon began a description of Voldo’s tattoos, the manner in which they were won. This took time, for Voldo had been valiant and much decorated.
‘To the final sleep he must go,’ he said eventually.
‘There to await the call,’ responded the brothers.
The squad members lifted him, easily now that his armour had been removed. They returned to the recess and laid Voldo gently in place, his head upon a low shelf at one end, his feet pointing back down the corridor.
‘Stone for pillow, stone for bed, his comfort is great, for his brothers are his companions.’
‘In life and death we are never alone.’
Odon handed his crozius and boltgun to Sergeant Arendo. With an armoured fingertip, he wiped the ashes from his lips. He took Arendo’s helmet from the Space Marine that carried it, and placed it upon the sergeant’s head.
‘You are sergeant. You may speak,’ said Odon.
‘Company!’ Arendo shouted, his voice filling the catacomb as surely as a gun report. ‘About turn!’
‘We obey,’ they said. As one, they swivelled on their heels. Each held a piece of Voldo’s armour.
‘March!’ shouted Arendo.
The Novamarines thundered off down the corridor, away from Odon and the light. The noise of their feet boomed long after they were out of sight.
When quiet returned, Odon reached in to the recess and gently took Voldo’s bolter.
‘Honour the battlegear of the dead,’ he said, and left Voldo to the eternal night under the mountains.
The crates were old, heavy-duty ammunition cases, their edges worn and battered by months of indelicate handling by cargo servitors, their security tabs drilled through. They both bore serial numbers and the forge worlds of origin for their original shipments, though the stencilled, yellow letters were now almost completely illegible. Like almost everything on board the Heart of Cronus, the cases had been salvaged. Repurposed.
Fresh from the decontamination vestibules, Bokari led three of his neophyte brethren through the hatchway and into the sweltering forge. The young Space Marines carried their burden with a weary reverence - like pilgrims who had grown too used to the same, oft-trodden path.
Sebastion turned from the vibro-lathe, allowing his serf menials to continue in their work, the air ringing with the sounds of hammering and heavy machinery. He swallowed hard, and cleared his throat a few times before speaking. He was still unused to conversing verbally in his daily duties.
'Novice Bokari. What have you brought me?'
Bokari grunted as he and Medon set their crate upon the deck, and then rubbed his sore palms together. 'Such spoils, forge master!' he exclaimed wryly, pulling back the lid with a flourish. 'Have you ever seen treasures like these?'
Without humour, Sebastion peered down into the crate. His bulky ocular array clicked and refocused.
'Actually, there was precious little worth saving,' Bokari muttered, 'and certainly nothing from your list.' He knelt, sifting through the contents and holding out a few items for closer inspection. 'Some choice pieces, though. At least one complete Corvus helm, by my reckoning - although you might need to machine out the... uhh...'
The forge master took the pitted dome of the helmet from him, pairing it with an appropriate faceplate. The crest sensor ridge, Novice Bokari. Unique in the Imperial Mark VI power armour variant, in that it is off- centre towards the shield arm.' He ran a finger down the length of the crest. 'Do you know why that is?'
Bokari hung his head. 'I do not, my lord.'
Sebastion tossed the two unattached pieces back into the crate and retrieved an equally battered vambrace-and-cannon assembly. Then there is still much for you to learn. Our honoured battleplate is a wonder of Martian ingenuity. The component parts can be combined in virtually any battlefield configuration, regardless of variant design or origin, and with a few minor adjustments it can be made to run as efficiently as a suit fresh from the forges.'
He held the vambrace up to the light. It had once been painted a dull green, though the ceramite outer layer had been so extensively burned away - at the cuff, almost down to the structural shell beneath - that it had a mottled, vaguely organic appearance.
This, however, is useless to me.'
Sebastion squeezed the plates, and the corroded metal buckled and fractured in his grip like nothing more than flawed husk-iron. Bokari watched the fragments tumble to the floor.
'But what about the rest, my lord?' he asked. 'Some of this looks like fine salvage. Fit for spares, at least?'
Flexing his shoulders, Sebastion brought the two uppermost limbs of his servo-harness forwards to pick through the rest of the crate. This is tyranid reclamation pool detritus, is it not?'
Bokari looked to Medon, who nodded. 'Aye, forge master. The Forty- Ninth Salvation Team just returned from an insertion into hive ship #78114 Rocola. They have the full salvage documents from the quarantine officials, though - it's all been cleared.'
Sebastion drew a survey module from his belt, pressing it against the surface of a high-rimmed pauldron. The shoulder pad was a grubby red, its surface scored by xenos bio-acid, and bore the symbol of a lion rampant. The forge master regarded it with a craftsman's eye.
'I don't have time for restoration projects, novice. We are at war. The environmental seals on all of these plates are gone, and I doubt that the remaining fibre-bundles will carry a charge. All of the servos will need replacing, too, and we're not going to pull spares from the reserve stores' He handed the pauldron to Bokari. 'Melt down the plates that are at less than fifty per cent frame-integrity, and take the rest to your workstation. If you can put together a suit worthy of blessing, then I'll gladly recommend you for apprenticeship to the forge.'
Bokari smiled broadly and bowed. Thank you, forge master.'
Sebastion made to return to his work, but Bokari pointed to the second crate.
'Forgive me, my lord, but I have brought you something else. Something you will definitely want to see.'
The other two neophytes drew back the lid and the forge master's eye widened.
Bulky and supine, the upper torso and right arm of a suit of heavy Indomitus-pattem Terminator armour lay in the crate, as though it might be a burial casket for some martyred hero. Though the metal was stripped almost bare, it had clearly once borne a dark blue Chapter livery.
At the sight, the nearest serf menials halted in their tasks and made the sign of the aquila over their hearts, awe written openly upon their faces.
Sebastion could hardly speak. 'Where... Whe
re did you find this?'
Medon stepped forwards. 'In an outer blister, my lord. There was no gravity - no blood, either. He was just sort of drifting there.'
'He?'
The former occupant. He'd been dead a long time, I think, but we took what was left of him to the Apothecaries. With dignity, my lord. They'll see to him properly.'
The forge master raised up the incomplete arm of the suit, noting every mark and blemish upon its surface, and measuring the strained interface spacings with a pair of callipers. A single tear ran down his cheek.
Bokari placed a hand upon the tarnished eagle across the breastplate.
'It's not perfect, I know - the gauntlet has no fingers, but the weapon mounts are intact. I thought it would certainly be worthy of restoration, until we can find more. A fourth suit of Terminator armour still wouldn't be enough to assemble a full Codex squad formation, but I imagine it'd go a long way to restoring some morale in the fleet.'
Sebastion did not look up. 'Aye. To the Scythes of the Emperor, this is a treasure indeed, Bokari. Worth more than all the rest put together, and more than the life of any single Space Marine. The Forty-Ninth team should be commended and honoured for this.'
The forge master issued a signal-command to a loading servitor to bear the suit away to his workshop sanctum. Activity in the forge resumed, but Sebastion looked pensive.
'Do you know what some of our battle-brothers say, Novice Bokari? They say that we dishonour the memory of these fallen warriors and their Chapters by cannibalising the remains of their wargear for our own needs.'
Bokari frowned. These fallen warriors have no need of it anymore. If I were to fall in battle, I would want everything I owned to be gathered up and thrown back at the bastard xenos.'
Sebastion's ocular array whirred as he looked the neophyte in the eye. His machine-gaze was suitably cold and detached, but tinged with a hint of regret.