Defenders of Mankind - David Annandale & Guy Haley

by Warhammer 40K

  They came to a large adamantium vault door. The serf pressed his palm onto a lock, and breathed into a tube so that the door’s machine-spirit could sample his genetic data. The door gave a pneumatic sigh and rolled back on toothed edges. The air that came from behind the door was desiccated and had a sharp smell.

  ‘The salt caves are a natural phenomenon,’ said the Master of the Scrolls as he led the inquisitor through. He spoke without prompting, proud of his vaults. They emerged onto a balcony overlooking a vast archive. ‘We are fortunate to have them. Thanks to them, our records are extensive, one of the most complete of all Chapters, or so I am told. We have documents stretching back ten thousand years, all the way to the founding of the Novamarines itself. We have a copy of a copy of Lucretius Corvo’s original oath, with a facsimile of his signature, if you wish to see it?’

  Karo said nothing. What the serf said was often said; the Novamarines, obsessed as they were with recording their deeds on their skin, were just as diligent when it came to paper records. Looking across the archive hall, he could well believe it. That was, after all, why he was here.

  Hundreds of kilometres of shelves lay spread out below in precise lines. Muted lumen-globes floated over the archive, their light of a carefully selected part of the spectrum so as not to damage the paper, vellum, magnetic tape, data crystals and other storage media. Above them was a rough-hewn roof of brown salt, an inverted mountain range that defied gravity.

  ‘The records you seek, lord?’

  ‘Anything and everything you have on the purging of the space hulk, the Death of Integrity ,’ he said. He refrained from adding ‘and be quick about it’; he was aware of his impatience and eagerness to be gone from this freezing planet. Manners, however, were the best weapon in the face of uncivil behaviour. ‘If you please,’ he said instead.

  ‘The purging of the Death of Integrity ? A notable action, a noble action. Hmm, yes, yes, I believe it is this way.’ The Master of the Scrolls headed down the metal steps leading from the balcony by the vault door. ‘We will check the chronicle first, the entries within it are short records, but all carry reference codings for any further documents that are relevant. The action occurred around two thousand years ago, or thereabouts. This way, follow me, my lord.’

  Karo went after the Master of the Scrolls. The serf was an old, old man; a bonded lifetime servant with little freedom, he nevertheless enjoyed access to the kind of medical care and diet many other Imperial citizens would literally kill for. He was slavishly loyal to his masters, as was only proper, but diffident towards Karo and overly prideful in his position, which was not. This reflected conceit was a common characteristic in Chapter serfs, as Karo had experienced time and again. Better that they were loyal and served correctly he supposed, than chafed under the yoke. A little arrogance was not too high a price to pay for that.

  Still, it irritated him. Of all the many, many organisations in the Imperium, it was the Adeptus Astartes who vexed Karo the most. Their independence, their pride, their unpredictability… Now he had been tasked with investigating one of their Chapters. Somebody’s idea of a joke, he was sure of it.

  They walked along endless ornate shelves stacked high with fat scrolls rolled up on paired wooden spindles. Brighter lights flicked on and off as they passed. The moistureless air dried Karo’s nostrils, the dust from a million documents tickled his nose and threatened an undignified sneeze.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the serf. He pulled a roll of parchment the width of a human torso from its resting place. It was obvious he struggled, but he did not ask for help. Nor did Karo offer any; the servants of the Space Marines were as proud as their masters, and did not like to be reminded of their own unaltered status.

  The old man struggled the scroll over to a trolley, then pushed it to a reading table. He ignited a lamp held aloft by a sculpted tree, and rolled out the paper. ‘A moment please,’ he said, as he rolled the scroll open first one way, and then another. His brow creased as he scanned it for the relevant entry. ‘Aha! Here we are, it is but a short passage, my lord.’

  He pressed a wizened finger into the paper, where an extravagantly illuminated capital letter ‘S’ began a new entry in the chronicle. Karo sat down in a chair at the table. The serf hovered at his shoulder, further annoying him. As much as he wanted to order him away, Karo said nothing. His investigation had little to do with the Novamarines, and he would not antagonise them or their servants unless it served immediate purpose.

  The document had been well-penned, but was faded with age despite the lauded qualities of the vault. Attempts had been made to mimic the hyperlink-heavy styles of true data-slate archiving, but of course the different coloured entries were just that; they had no functionality, a product of blind transcription by an ignorant mind. Karo grumbled to himself, and then he read.

  189887.M39

  The purging of the Death of Integrity , officer in command Captain Mantillio Galt, Veteran Company [see also Captain Lutil Mastrik (Third Company); Lord Chapter Master Aresti (then: cpt. Fifth Company); Epistolary Ranial ///Triumphant In Mortis///; Lord Reclusiarch Odon (then: chpln. Veteran Company); Captain Steli Gallio (then: Vtn. Br, Squad Wisdom of Lucretius); Forgemaster Clastrin {Manufactor Magnus Est}].

  So it was that elements of the First, Third and Fifth Companies of the Novamarines gathered under one banner at the star Jorso, the most multitudinous coming together of our brethren for many centuries, there to join with the most noble brothers of the Blood Drinkers Chapter to purge the space hulk designated the Death of Integrity after a protracted infestation of the Volian Sector. Nigh two hundred Terminator-clad warriors of the two Chapters fought side by side in the radiation-fogged darkness of the great hulk. Many brethren were killed, and the loss of Lord Chapter Master Caedis of the Blood Drinkers a sore blow ( In Memoriam Glorius Est ). A kill ratio of over 53:1 was nevertheless achieved, and data and artefacts retrieved from the hulk by attached members of Adeptus Mechanicus Explorator fleet led by Excommentum Incursus under High Lord Magos Explorator Plosk proved rich in STC materials. The hulk was subsequently destroyed. Draco mortis in perpetuem.

  In gratitude, the Adepts of Mars presented both Chapters with new strike cruisers on the anniversary of Lord Caedis’s death, thirty standard years later.

  Chapter Master Caedis was honoured by both the Blood Drinkers and Blood Angels Chapters. Captains Mastrik and Aresti were invited to attend his memorial.

  Captain Mantillio Galt petitioned Lord Chapter Master Hydariko for the right to undertake a penitential crusade. This request was granted. He disappeared shortly thereafter. [[[FATE UNKNOWN]]]

  Of the vessel the Spirit of Eternity , no more was heard.

  ‘Is that it?’ Karo said tersely.

  ‘I am sorry if my lord is displeased.’

  ‘I am displeased,’ he said, letting his temper rule him for a moment. ‘I admit that is not your error. Surely there must be more? Where are the references to which you referred?’

  The serf shrugged apologetically. ‘It is unusual my lord, for our record keeping is generally stringent.’

  ‘You do not think it unusual, that a conflict that saw the deployment of two hundred Terminators, and the death of a Chapter Master–’ his gloved finger stabbed the relevant sentence. The Master of the Scrolls winced. ‘–is not recorded in more detail? You do not find that unusual?’ Karo stared at the old man, the implication clear.

  ‘I am sure there was nothing to hide, perhaps the other records were lost?’

  Karo tapped the parchment. ‘No references were included when this chronicle was made.’ Karo thought the scribes of the past could have concealed their omissions more carefully, but putting false references in was probably too galling to contemplate for such a meticulous order. Omission was one thing, lies another.

  ‘You doubt the veracity of the document?’ the serf was appalled.

  ‘No, I doubt its completion. There are things here that are unrecorded. Do not try to tell me there are not.
The defence of your Chapter is worthy, but I am an agent of the Inquisition, and I know that there are truths here left untold.’

  The old man’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. He was taken aback, but unworried by the inquisitor’s ire. Lesser men would be pleading for their lives by now. ‘I am sorry, my lord,’ he said. ‘If you would wait, I can check for more detail. We can visit the Hall of Integrity if you would, perhaps you can glean something from the sculpture and shrines there? They are quite impressive.’

  Karo nodded and steepled his long brown fingers in front of his lips. ‘First, search,’ he said.

  While the old man went about his business Karo re-read the document. The naming of the ship at the end struck him as an oversight, an accidental inclusion by some ancient completist. He knew full well why they might not wish to mention the Spirit of Eternity . He had found only one other mention of that particular ship in Imperial records, and that was hidden behind the Inquisitorial seal. No matter, that was not what troubled him.

  The Master of Scrolls gave up his search hours later. Karo examined everything he could on the named officers in the archive. All were exemplars of heroism; all had died rendering exceptional service. All had references to the clearing of the Death of Integrity that between them amounted to less than thirty lines of text. Kill ratings, valour, honours earned, the usual concerns of the Space Marines. War and glory, glory and war.

  Karo pushed the chair back from the table. He sighed.

  To San Guisiga then. Right into the monster’s lair.

  At least it would be warm there.

  ‘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 passed. 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.

  Chapter Master Caedis was dead.

  The call went out
. The brethren gathered.

  The Blood Drinkers Chapter entire was in the Arena of Horandor. The thin light of San Guisiga’s suns poured through the arena windows, illuminating the sand in bands of weak light. Dark and light, the opposing aspects of life; dark and light, the opposing facets of the Chapter.

  Radin Castor, captain of the First Company, was on the fighting floor. He wore the tabard and loose trousers that were the robes of his Chapter, his torso bare. San Guisiga was a hot world, and its sons were hot-blooded. He carried a simple steel sword. Of great mass and length, a mortal man could not have borne it, but in his giant fist it seemed of natural proportion.

  Opposing him was Captain Sorael of the Fifth Company. Castor snarled. Upstart. Mastery of the Chapter was his right. Who was Sorael to challenge him? He would not have thought so harshly of Sorael, but the blood haze was on him, a subtle filter on his senses, red more pronounced, the smell of iron enticing. Heartbeats rang loudly.

  Reclusiarch Mazrael came between them, robed in black silk from head to foot, his feet bare. Twenty metres to the Reclusiarch, another twenty to the pretender. Castor thought already of attack.

  Mazrael’s words to the crowd were indistinct. Castor’s ears buzzed. The combatants had been denied the Rite of Holos for weeks. Sorael bore the signs of the Red Thirst as clearly as Castor: flushed skin, pupils dilated so as to crowd out the iris, long canines growing longer. Sorael seemed a monster. Castor did not feel himself to be one, but he knew what he was well enough.

  Mazrael held up a red flag pinched between forefinger and thumb, the chalice and blood drop of their order upon it a nonsense of creases and broken yellow lines. He spoke again, unintelligible men’s words. Castor and Sorael were moving away from the realms of men.

  The flag fluttered to the sand. Mazrael withdrew. Castor saw Sanguinary Master Teale stand, nostrils flared in excitement. He was there to treat wounds, but in truth Teale rather more enjoyed inflicting them.

  Horns blared. The crowd roared, many throats, one voice.