Blood Angels - The Complete Rafen Omnibus - James Swallow

by Warhammer 40K

  “My lord, we should go no further!” Fenn blurted out the words. “We do not know what will happen!”

  “Quite so,” noted Nyniq. “But science is quest for knowledge, serf. If we allow ignorance to blind us, we willingly set ourselves toward a return to the Age of Strife and the darkness of Old Night!”

  The serfs lips trembled and Caecus gave him a level stare. “This is right, Fenn. It must be done.” He let out a breath and felt a conviction take hold in him. “We cannot sway from this course of action. I hold it in my grasp to be the saviour of the Blood Angels. I cannot refuse that call.” He turned and nodded toward the magos. “Proceed.”

  “Emperor watch over this endeavour and grant it success,” said Serpens. The tech-lord inserted the vial into the complex snarl of machinery ringing one of the glass cylinders. “Moment of truth, then,” he said lightly.

  The fluid discharged into the festoon of tubules snaking away into the milky processor medium and with a sudden shock of movement, the clone inside began to thrash and hammer against the glass. Caecus heard a peculiar bubbling wail issue out from the tank.

  A scream.

  “I knew the Blood Angels were conceited, but never had I dreamed that their master could show such towering arrogance as this!” Seth’s voice was loudest, and it cut through the chorus of dissent in the chamber. “You have excelled yourself, Dante! You lay down an edict as if you are the Emperor himself!”

  Mephiston snarled at the Flesh Tearer’s words, but his commander placed a warning hand on his arm. “I would never dare to do such a thing. I have told you what is needed, nothing more.”

  “It did not sound like a request to me,” Daggan grated. “Your statement had the colour of a command, Lord Dante. Is that what it was?”

  Armis shook his head. “Is it necessary to make it so? I see only a brother Chapter in need and the opportunity among us to meet it.”

  Seth gave Armis an arch look. “It does not surprise me that the Master of the Blood Legion takes the side of a First Founding Chapter.”

  “What are you implying?” demanded Armis. “Are you questioning my loyalty, Flesh Tearer?”

  Orloc raised his hands. “Hold! This is a serious matter, and I will not see it descend into small matters of rivalry!” The Lord of the Blood Drinkers shook his head. “This is not about ‘taking sides’! We are all kindred beneath the armour… A family, in as much as that term can be applied to the Adeptus Astartes.”

  “Then you agree to this?” asked the Blood Swords Dreadnought.

  “I did not say that,” Orloc replied. “I say only that now is not the time for divisiveness! Clear heads and rational thoughts must carry the day.”

  Seth walked forward, and his second, Brother-Captain Gorn, came with him. “Forgive me, cousin, but I find it hard to remain rational in the face of this… this decree.” He swept his glare toward Dante. “You want my men? The Blood Angels wish to gut my Chapter to patch up the wounds in their own. And then it will be the Flesh Tearers left with diminished numbers, our best and brightest taken away…” He bared his teeth. “As if my Chapter is not lessened enough!”

  “The tithe will be proportional,” said Dante. “The numbers requested from each successor will reflect the size and disposition of that Chapter.”

  Seth turned away. “How magnanimous. You’ve thought of everything.”

  “And what will happen to the men you take?” asked Sentikan. “The recruits?”

  “We will uplift them as Blood Angels,” explained the Chapter Master. “They will be granted the implants and rituals in keeping with that status.”

  “They will lose the identities they had,” Daggan grated.

  Dante shook his head. “As Lord Orloc said, we are all kindred beneath the armour.”

  The room fell silent for a long moment; then Sentikan spoke again, in a quiet rasp. “We are to take a vote upon this, then.”

  Seth turned about and uttered a single world. “No.”

  “You refuse to assist our parent Chapter?” said Armis.

  “More than that,” Seth barked. “I question the right of the Blood Angels to demand anything from us!”

  “We are the First Founding,” said Dante, steel entering his voice. At last, the hidden challenge boiling away beneath Seth’s manner was rising to the fore.

  “I know what you are!” snapped the Flesh Tearer lord. “I cannot be allowed to forget what you are, even if I wished it!” He shot a look at the other Chapter Masters and representatives. “Are we to agree to this without even raising the question as to why?” Seth stabbed out a finger toward Dante. “He allowed this to happen. Under his stewardship the Blood Angels were taken to the very edge of the abyss, a fall that would have led to the gates of Chaos itself! If not for the Emperor’s grace, we might have called this conclave to discuss the extermination of his Chapter, not the salvaging of it!”

  Dante’s words were stony. “I know the full measure of my responsibility, Seth. I bear the shame of this without shirking from it. But I have led the Blood Angels to glory in the name of Terra for centuries. I fought against the black armies of the Ruinous Powers before you were born, cousin.”

  Seth’s fury ebbed and became cold. “True enough. I do not dispute your elder status or the record of your victories. But I question your future, Dante. You are indeed among the longest-lived of the Astartes. And perhaps, with that in mind, you should consider your responsibility. Consider stepping down from your position in light of what you allowed to transpire.”

  The Flesh Tearer’s words brought a sharp intake of breath from the other Astartes; for Mephiston, it was one insult too many.

  “You dare—” he began, stepping forward.

  The Dreadnought Daggan moved swiftly to block the Librarian’s path with a heavy steel footfall that echoed through the hall, turning with a speed unexpected for a form of such mass. “He dares,” said the venerable warrior. “He must. In this most grave of circumstances we cannot shy from even the hardest of questions.”

  Dante kept his annoyance in check. “All too true.” He took a breath. “Seth. Do you challenge my judgement?”

  “Do I need to?” returned the other Master, his tone mild. “What has taken place speaks louder than any voice could.”

  Armis shook his head. “You go too far, Flesh Tearer.”

  “That is my way,” he replied. Seth paused, taking the measure of the men around him. “I make a counter to Lord Dante’s demand with one of my own. If his judgement is indeed brought into question—and it must be so in the eyes of any sane man—then perhaps it is the Blood Angels themselves who must be called to account!” He smiled coldly. “I advocate the reverse of my honoured cousin’s demands. I suggest that we should not tithe our men to Dante, but that he should tithe his to us!”

  “We cannot disband a First Founding Chapter!” Orloc was aghast.

  “We know the history of the Astartes. It has happened before,” insisted Seth, “we can take the men among the successors, spread equally. As you said, Lord Orloc, we are all kindred beneath the armour…”

  Dante looked around him and saw the spread of emotion, clear on the faces of Seth and Armis, hidden under Sentikan’s hood and behind the immobile mask of Daggan’s sculpted facia; and a dozen other points across the spectrum in the manners of the men of the Angels Encarmine, the Red Wings, the Flesh Eaters and all the others assembled. He felt the moment slipping away from him. Seth’s words were fragmenting his kindred, and to venture further along this path might force them to divide into lines both for and against. “We must take pause,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

  “Aye, lord,” Mephiston was at his side. “If we force the hand of anyone here, it will mean discord.”

  Dante gave a solemn nod. “I must rely on their loyalty and honour. Seth plays only to their doubts.” He spoke again, louder this time, so all could hear him. “We have much to think on. I call a recess so that we may all reflect on wh
at has been said here.”

  “My answer will not change,” said Seth.

  Dante nodded again, keeping his voice even. “And that, cousin, is your right.”

  The noise and the disturbance inside the tank died away within moments, but Fenn could not take his eyes off the cylinder. He could make out the murky shadow of a man-shape inside the liquid, but he dared not wonder what it might look like if revealed in the hard, cold light of the laboratorium. The panoply of mutations he had seen throughout the many iterations of the replicae process - things without skins, mewling forms with multiple mouths, limbs twisted into tentacles, and worse—these were horrors that haunted his dreams. And yet he could not look away. He had to know what Serpens had wrought.

  Nyniq was reading from a medicae auspex. “The amalgam has taken, tech-lord. We have stability.”

  “You’re certain?” There was concern in Caceus’ voice.

  Serpens placed a hand upon the shoulder of Fenn’s master. “There is only one way to be certain.” He turned to the serf. “Open it.”

  Fenn shot his master a look. “My lord?”

  “Do as he says,” said Caecus. “Decant the Bloodchild.”

  “Bloodchild,” repeated Serpens, with an admiring nod. “A fitting name.”

  With shaking hands, the Chapter serf worked the controls and the milky fluid spiralled away as the tank split open, one half drawing up, the other falling away. A mass of flesh tipped forward and crashed to the gridded flooring; a man, his skin a smooth russet as if tanned by a hundred days beneath the sun.

  Fenn backed away, his hands in front of him in a subconscious gesture of self-protection. The clone was shivering as he got to his feet. Wet and naked, the figure was carved as if from planes of nalwood, dense packs of muscle shifting beneath the surface of his flesh. A fine mane of blond hair coloured his scalp, and the flawless planes of his face were the ideal of a patrician Blood Angel countenance. Fenn saw the smallest reflection of his master’s face in the duplicate’s aspect, no doubt some artefact of the amalgam process.

  Only the eyes seemed strange; they were blank and doll-like. No intelligence glittered behind them, only emptiness.

  “Behold the future of the Blood Angels,” said Nyniq, with reverence.

  Fenn took a wary step closer, and the clone watched him blankly, like a docile animal. “Can… Can it understand us?”

  “He has the mind of a newborn, in many respects,” said Serpens, smiling like a proud parent. “Much of what he is remains locked in his brain through chains of genetic-memory. With the right stimuli, he will re-learn what he already knows.” He glanced away. “Give me a month of indoctrination and hypnocordia, and you’ll have a Space Marine fit for line duty.”

  Caecus came closer, his face rapt with wonder. “A success, after so long. I hardly dare to believe it is true.” He swung about in a flash of motion. “I must bring this to Lord Dante immediately! One look at this creation and he will know that I was not wrong! He will acknowledge the Tightness in my plan!”

  “With respect, Lord Caecus, this is only an archetype,” said Nyniq. “Perhaps we should run some more tests before we—”

  “No,” snapped the Apothecae Majoris. “I understand your intent, but you must know, time is of the essence! Even as we speak, Dante is in conclave with his fellow Chapter Masters… I must bring this to him before he makes a choice that he will later regret!”

  Fenn blinked. His head was swimming; he couldn’t find the words to express his swirling thoughts.

  The serf watched Serpens nod thoughtfully. “Lord Caecus is correct, Nyniq. This success must not be concealed. Go with him to the fortress-monastery, take the Bloodchild. Show the master of the Blood Angels the fruits of his kinsman’s great work.”

  The woman bowed low and Fenn’s voice caught up to his thoughts. “Lord, I will attend you—”

  But Caecus shook his head. “No, Fenn. I want you to remain at the citadel. Start the test series as Nyniq suggested, and prepare more iterations for infusion with the amalgam compound.” The Apothecary was already walking away, lost in thought.

  Fenn felt his blood chill as he turned and found Serpens watching him intently. “It will be a fine opportunity for us to work together,” said the magos.

  Brother-Captain Gorn followed his master into the grounds beyond the Grand Annex, moving swiftly to keep pace with him over the ochre flagstones of the wide drilling quadrangle. He ignored the sideways looks from the Blood Angel guards who patrolled the edges of the open space.

  Seth slowed as he crossed toward the towering statue of Sanguinius that stood in the centre of the quad, its presence dividing the space into four smaller areas. The Great Angel was depicted with his wings furled and his head turned down to those walking beneath him. Beneath his hands he held a great sword, the point toward the earth. “He’s watching us, Gorn,” said the Chapter Master. “Do you see?”

  The captain looked up; true enough, the eyes of the great carving seemed to follow him as he moved.

  “He watches us and we must not be shown vulnerable in his sight.” Seth shook his head. “Sanguinius wants strength, brother-captain. He would not have given us the gene-curse if he did not. He did that to test us. So he could be sure that his sons would be forever strong after his death.”

  “It is so, lord,” Gorn offered. “We will do whatever he asks of us.”

  Seth stopped abruptly in the shadow of the statue. “Will you? Here, beneath his gaze, can you swear to that?”

  “I can,” Gorn spoke without hesitation. “In the name of the Great Angel, you have my pledge, as you always have. My men and I will do whatever is needed of us to bring this matter to a close, even if that comes to measures of…” He faltered, unable to find the right words.

  “Measures of an extreme nature?” suggested Seth.

  “Aye. I heard the merit in your words today, lord, as did many others. Perhaps the sun has set on the supremacy of the Blood Angels.” He felt a thrill of excitement at speaking such a rebellious thing aloud. “Perhaps a stronger, more vital Chapter would be better suited to be masters of Baal.”

  “A Chapter like ours?” said Seth, without weight. He looked up once more at the statue; behind it, the sun turned the clouded sky a dark crimson the shade of a Flesh Tearer’s armour. “Wait, Gorn,” he said, after a moment. “Be ready. But for now, just wait.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The data-slate was exactly where it was supposed to be, concealed beneath a careworn copy of the Litergus lntegritas, under the fourth pew from the right.

  Fenn threw a wary glance over his shoulder, and then bent to recover it. At this time of day, there would be no one else inside the devotional chapel; in fact, this small sub-chancel rarely saw more than one or two worshippers at a time. The majority of the staff in the Vitalis Citadel preferred to make the trip up to the larger temple on the upper tiers of the tower for vespers, where true daylight was cast through the windows. This minor chamber, beneath the surface of the frozen polar landscape, had only biolume simulators to match the passage of Baal’s day-night cycle. The place had a perpetually musty, undisturbed air to it; precisely the reason that the serf had chosen it as a dead-drop.

  A thin hum of antigravs momentarily drew his eye to the roof. In the dimness, he could just about make out the shape of a servo-skull making lazy circles in the air, a smoking censer rocking beneath it on a chain. Fenn made the sign of the aquila and pretended to pray, nodding towards the basalt statues at the altar. Sanguinius knelt before the Emperor, his father’s hand upon his shoulder. Forgive my subterfuge, my Lords, he mouthed, but what I do here is in service to the Imperium.

  When he was sure the servo-skull was far enough away not to surveillance him, Fenn raised the slate to his ear and ran his finger over the activation rune. He listened to the scratchy recording of the voice encoded there, the words of the contact he had cultivated in the citadel’s communicant staff. When the serf’s suspicions of
Nyniq and Serpens had finally crystallised, it was to that man that Fenn went, bribing him with minor drugs from the medicae stores to see that an extra query was included in the machine-call message stack sent out toward the sector capital.

  He had not expected to get a reply so soon; the signal had just been a shot in the dark, some vain attempt to feel as if he were doing something instead of sitting back and allowing the magos biologis to ride rough-shod over his master’s work.

  But here it was. Proof. With shaking hands, he wound the vox-spool back and played it again, to be certain he had not misheard.

  “The message from the astropath is garbled, as they always are,” said the recording, “but the meat of it is apparent. Quite why you require this datum is beyond me, but I will state it for the record.” Fenn felt sweat prickling on his arms as he waited to hear the words for a second time. “The Tech-Lord Haran Serpens is listed in the rolls of the Adeptus Terra as missing presumed dead. His craft was reported lost in the deeps of the Segmentum Pacificus, beyond the Thoth system.”

  Fenn stopped the playback and rocked on the pew. By the Emperor’s sight, Thoth was clear across the galactic plane from Baal, hundreds of light-years distant. “He’s not the same man,” the words tumbled from the serf’s lips and he looked up at the statue. “In Terra’s name, he cannot be the same man!”

  He scrambled to his feet in a rush, dithering as he stepped into the aisle. What could he do? If he returned to the laboratorium, the impostor would be waiting there for him. Fenn gripped the data-slate hard. How could he face the magos—or whoever he was—like this? The serf had never had the skill to conceal his emotions; the pretender would see the knowledge on Fenn’s face as plain as nightfall. He forced himself to remain calm. Think, think, you fool! Lord Caecus must be told!

  “Yes,” he said aloud. There were transports in the flight bay atop the tower far above, lighters and shuttles that travelled across Baal on regular sorties. All he needed to do was find one destined for the fortress-monastery, and—