PART TWO
It was four days after the clash with the orks, and Boreas knelt in silent meditation in the outpost chapel. He was clad only in his white robe, a mark of his position within the elite warriors of the Chapter – the Deathwing. What the others did not realise was that it was also a mark of his membership within the secretive Inner Circle of the Chapter. Lifting the robe slightly, he knelt before an altar of dark stone inlaid with gold and platinum. The altar was at one end of the chapel, which itself was situated at the top of the five-storey Dark Angels keep in Kadillus Harbour, capital of Piscina IV. The chamber was not large, for space was at a premium in the small tower, big enough only for fifty people to attend the dawn and dusk masses that Boreas held every day.
Three of the keep’s many non-Space Marine attendants were at work renewing the murals that covered the chapel’s interior, failed aspirants who had nonetheless survived their trials. Two were busy reapplying gilding to a portrait of the Dark Angels primarch, Lion El’Jonson, which towered some three metres in height above the altar.
Boreas tried to block out the occasional creak and squeak of the painters’ wooden scaffolding. The other was renovating a scene added after the Dark Angels’ last defence of Piscina, when the ork warlords Ghazghkull and Nazdreg had combined forces and fallen upon the planet like two thunderbolts of destruction. For Boreas, that particular picture brought both pride and a little consternation. It depicted the defence of the Dark Angels basilica which had once served as their outpost in the capital. It was here that Boreas himself had led the fighting against the vicious alien horde on numerous occasions, as possession of the strategically vital strongpoint had changed hands back and forth for the whole campaign. It was during the battle for the basilica that Boreas had lost his right eye to an ork powerfist, which had nearly crushed his head. Though eventually the orks had been driven out of the basilica, and the planet saved by an epic battle at Koth Ridge, so intense had been the fighting at the blood-soaked chapter house that after the orks had been defeated, the Dark Angels had been forced to abandon the fortified administration building and construct a new keep. The ruins themselves still stood a kilometre or so from where Boreas now knelt, a testament to the protection the Dark Angels had provided for countless millennia.
Reminded of the valiant battle-brothers whose dying words he had heard in those shattered rooms and corridors, and mindful of the great sacrifices that his fellow Space Marines had made, both the Dark Angels and those of the Harbingers Chapter, Boreas felt a tightness in his chest. Had the basilica really been that important, he asked himself yet again? Perhaps it had just been pride that had driven Master Belial to command Boreas to defend the building at all costs? In the end, the fighting in the dark cathedral had been but a sideshow of the campaign, the relative merits of the engagement inconclusive compared to the slaughter at Koth Ridge.
With a terse command, Boreas dismissed the serfs, their presence breaking his concentration as he was trying to focus on the oath of fealty he had pledged when he had joined the Inner Circle. They did not give him a second glance as they quietly picked up their tools and left, for which he was thankful. Despite the doubts he felt, he still had a duty as the Dark Angels commander in Piscina to show strong leadership and set an example to the others. If he showed weakness for a moment, it could cause unknown damage, not only to himself but also to those who looked to his wisdom and guidance with absolute trust. If that trust were to be broken, then only Boreas truly knew what acts of anarchy and corruption might follow.
Realising that it was not the presence of the serfs that was disturbing his meditation, but his own dark thoughts, Boreas decided that he would not quiet his troubled soul in isolation. Perhaps he might find more solace in the company of the five Space Marines under his command, he thought, and resolved to leave. Glancing only briefly at the half-gilded primarch in front of him, he turned and strode from the chapel, his bare feet padding loudly on the flagstones. Passing through the double doors that opened out of the sanctum, he turned and closed them behind him, the boom of the heavy wooden doors loud in the stillness of the keep. Turning left in the corridor, he crossed the tower to the armoury, where he hoped to find Hephaestus.
Boreas was proved correct as he stepped into the workshop of the Techmarine. Like most of the keep, the chamber was square and functional, the plain rockcrete of the walls unadorned. There, amongst the racks of weapons and worktables, accompanied by his five attendants, Hephaestus was seated at a workbench, working on Boreas’s power armour. He had the chest plastron in a vice and was busily filing away at the scores cut into the breastplate during the battle against the orks. From beside him, one of his attendants occasionally dipped a ladle into a grail of sacred water and poured the contents over the mechanical file.
On Boreas’s left were cases of bolters and crates of ammunition, all stacked neatly and marked with the brand of the Imperial eagle and the winged sword symbol of the Dark Angels. Next to them various swords and axes hung on the wall, amongst them chainswords, power swords and Boreas’s crozius. They glistened in the light from the glowing strips in the ceiling, a tribute to the attention paid by Hephaestus, who lovingly cleaned them every night with blessed oils.
‘And what brings you into my chamber, Brother-Chaplain?’ Hephaestus asked, as Boreas realised he had been staring transfixed at the sheen on his crozius. The Techmarine was looking over his shoulder at Boreas.
‘You were late for mass last night,’ Boreas said, knowing he wasn’t quite sure why he had come here.
‘Come, come,’ said Hephaestus, wiping his meaty hands on a white cloth and standing up from his bench. ‘You know that I had to attend to my duties here, as I have every night since the fight at Vartoth.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Boreas, knowing full well that a Techmarine had dispensation from prayers if his attendance would interfere in the repair or upkeep of the Space Marines’ wargear. ‘I did not realise that our encounter had left you such a long task.’
‘I would rather spend twenty hours repairing a bolter, than think for a moment that my battle-brothers had not committed fully to the fight in wayward consideration of my labours,’ Hephaestus smiled. ‘And I am paying particular attention to your armour, Interrogator-Chaplain, as it deserves.’
‘Yes, I know of your love for the works of the artificer Mandeus,’ Boreas said, allowing himself a rare smile. ‘Did you not once say to me that you would die content if you could one day fashion a suit of armour half as great as the one that I inherited?’
‘I might well have said that,’ agreed Hephaestus, ‘but in error. These days, having worked with your armour so much, I have learnt much of Mandeus’s techniques, and now I will only be content if I make a suit as good as this one!’
‘Would you not prefer to better Mandeus’s work?’ Boreas asked, walking to the bench and looking at the scattered pieces of servos and artificial muscle-fibres that Hephaestus had removed from the breastplate.
‘If I can emulate his skill with the tools I have here and the time I have, then I will judge myself the better artisan,’ Hephaestus said quietly. Boreas gave him a questioning look and the Techmarine continued. ‘The great artificers Mandeus, Geneon, Aster and their like all worked in the Tower of Angels, amongst the brethren, with acolytes to perform many of the duties that fill my days. You have seen the great armorium of our Chapter. It dwarfs the entirety of this keep!’
‘You feel burdened by your post here?’ Boreas asked quietly, knowing that he too felt the same constriction on his soul, the same chafing to be free of Piscina and its confines. ‘You feel you could better serve the Emperor in the armorium with your fellow Techmarines?’
Hephaestus hesitated, his eyes gauging Boreas’s expression. After a momentary glance at the attendants in the room, who were busying themselves with their duties and paying little heed to their masters, or so it appeared, he answered thoughtfully.
‘We all have fought here, shed our blood on these volcanic islands to protect Piscina from the orks,’ he said, his voice low as he bent close to the Interrogator-Chaplain. ‘I stand ready to do so again, and will labour in this place until such time as the Grand Master of the Armorium sees fit to send another in my stead.’
‘Yet you have not answered the question,’ Boreas persisted with a sad smile. ‘I do not seek to judge you, for have you not been raised to glory by your works? I cannot hold you to account for longing to tread in the steps of your great predecessors. You are a magnificent artificer, and your patience is a tribute to our Chapter. I cannot speak the minds of the Grand Masters, but when the Tower of Angels returns to us again, they shall know of your dedication and skill.’
‘I sought not for praise, Brother-Chaplain,’ Hephaestus said quickly. ‘You asked me the question and I answered as honestly as I can.’
‘You are worthy of the praise, all the more so because you do not seek it,’ Boreas replied, placing a hand on his comrade’s shoulder. ‘I ask the question not from suspicion, but out of trust. I would not have you burdened with your thoughts and ambition; you must feel free to speak of them freely, to me or to the others. Only in wishing to rise to greatness ourselves can we maintain the honour and pride of the Chapter.’
‘In that case, might I ask you a question, Brother-Chaplain?’ Hephaestus said, looking closely at the Chaplain’s face.
‘Yes, of course,’ Boreas answered.
‘It is your eye,’ Hephaestus said. ‘You seem troubled of late and I wondered whether it was functioning properly… Is it causing you pain?’
‘It causes me constant pain, as you know, Hephaestus,’ Boreas replied, removing his hand and stepping back. ‘I would not have it any other way, for it serves as a reminder against complacency.’
‘I would still like to examine it for a moment, to allay my own fears,’ Hephaestus insisted.
‘You did a fine job with my eye,’ said Boreas. ‘It is good to measure yourself against your deeds, but you judge yourself too harshly.’
Seeing the determined looked in the Techmarine’s eye, Boreas gave a resigned nod and sat on the bench. Hephaestus bent over him, his fingers working deftly at the mechanism of the bionic organ, and with an audible click, the main part of its workings came free. Simultaneously, Boreas lost the sight in his right eye. It was not worrying for him – once a year Hephaestus would remove the eye to ensure it still worked smoothly. It was odd, however, that the Techmarine had asked to do so now, though, barely two months from his last check.
Taking a complex tool from his bench, Hephaestus unlocked the casing of the eye and slid the interior free. He delicately pulled free the lenses, polishing them on his cloth and setting them to one side, before delving inside the eye’s innards with fine tweezers. Boreas studied Hephaestus with his good eye as the Techmarine continued his work, watching the intensity on the artisan’s face as he examined his own construction. If Hephaestus was becoming overly concerned about Boreas’s well-being, then perhaps the others had noticed his change of mood as well. The Interrogator-Chaplain resolved to speak to them when he was done here, to gauge their mood and ask them some pertinent questions. The inactivity and routine, though they had trained for it, had become monotonous. It had been two years since the Tower of Angels had last visited and the isolation from the rest of the Chapter might well have started taking its toll on them as it had done on Boreas.
‘Everything appears to be functioning as it should be,’ Hephaestus reported, fitting the bionic eye back together and slotting it back into its socket. There was a brief tingle in Boreas’s right eye and then full vision returned to him. ‘However, I did notice some additional scabbing on the implant, as if the wound had opened again recently. You might ask Nestor to have a look at it.’
‘Thank you, I will,’ Boreas said, glad of the excuse to go and talk to the Apothecary, not that he needed to justify visiting those whose morale and discipline he was responsible for preserving. ‘Will I see you at mass this evening?’
Hephaestus paused and looked around the armoury, assessing his workload. He looked back at Boreas and nodded his head once before sitting down again at his workbench and picking up the mechanical file. The rasping teeth buzzed into life behind Boreas as he walked from the chamber.
The Interrogator-Chaplain walked down the spiral stair at the centre of the keep to the level two storeys below. Here was the apothecarion, the domain of Nestor and medical centre for the outpost. When Boreas entered, there was no sign of the Apothecary. The harsh glowstrips in the ceiling reflected off shining steel surfaces, meticulously arranged surgical tools, phials of drugs and elixirs set in rows on long shelves. The room was dominated by three operating tables in its centre. Unsure where Nestor might be if not here, Boreas walked to the comm-unit by the door and pressed the rune for general address to the keep.
‘This is Boreas, Apothecary Nestor to report,’ he said and released the activation stud. It was a few seconds before the response came through, the display on the comm-unit signalling an incoming transmission from the vaults set deep into the tower’s foundations.
‘Nestor here, Brother-Chaplain,’ the Apothecary answered.
‘Please come up to the apothecarion, I have a matter I wish to discuss with you,’ Boreas said.
‘Affirmative. I will be there shortly,’ Nestor replied.
Boreas walked over to the nearest operating table and looked at his reflection in its gleaming metal surface. Many times he had been in such a place, either as a patient or to provide spiritual support for those undergoing surgery. He had also spent too many occasions in an apothecarion saying the rites of passing over a dying battle-brother, while an Apothecary had removed the progenoid glands so that the sacred gene-seed might be passed on to future warriors. It was the most important function any Apothecary could perform, and essential to the survival of the Chapter.
New gene-seed was all but impossible to create – certainly no Chapter Boreas knew of had ever achieved such a feat – and so future generations of Space Marines relied solely on the vital gene-seed storage organs that every Space Marine was implanted with. Every Marine had two progenoids, and in theory his death could help create two replacements. But despite the daring and brave efforts of the Apothecaries, too many progenoids were lost on the field of battle before they could be harvested to ever ensure the continued existence of a Chapter. It was the task of the Chaplains to teach every Space Marine of the legacy he held within himself, to educate them in their duty to the continued glory of the Chapter. A Space Marine was taught that although he may be asked to sacrifice his life at any moment, he should never sell his life in vain, for by doing so he betrayed those who would come after him.
There was a popular Imperial saying: Only in death does duty end. But for the Space Marines, even death did not bring an end to their duty to protect mankind and the Imperium the Emperor’s servants had created. In death they lived on in newly created Space Marines. Some, those whose physical bodies could not be saved, might be interred in the mighty walking tanks called dreadnoughts, to live on for a thousand years as gigantic warriors encased in an unliving body of plasteel, adamantium and ceramite. In such a way, over ten thousand years of the Imperium, there was a bond of brotherhood from the very first Space Marines to those who had only just been ordained as Scouts of the Tenth Company. It was this very physical relationship that bound together every warrior of the Chapter. Not merely for tradition’s sake were they called battle-brothers.
Or so the litanies taught, but Boreas knew different. He had learnt many things when he had become a member of the Deathwing, the elite Inner Circle of the Dark Angels. He had learnt yet more during his interrogation of the Fallen Angel, Astelan, things which even now still troubled him.
The hiss of the hermetically sealed doors opening heralded the arrival of Apothecary Nestor. Of the five Space Marines currently under Boreas’s command, Nestor had been a Space Marine for the longest, and by quite some margin. Boreas had served as one of the Dark Angels for nearly three hundred years, but at over six hundred years old Nestor was one of the oldest members of the Chapter. Boreas did not know why the veteran had not risen higher, why he had never been admitted to the Deathwing. Nestor was one of the finest Apothecaries on the field of battle, and Boreas owed his life to him when he had been wounded in the battle for the basilica. Nestor had also been honoured for his heroic fighting during the first ork assault on Koth Ridge.
In looks, the Apothecary was even more grizzled than Boreas. His thick, waxy skin was pitted and scarred across his face, and six service studs were hammered into his forehead, one for every century of service. His eyes were dark and his head shaved bald, giving the medic a menacing appearance that was entirely at odds with the conscientious, caring man Boreas knew him to be. That care was not to be mistaken for weakness, though; in battle Nestor was as fierce as any warrior Boreas had fought alongside.
‘How can I help you?’ the Apothecary asked, walking past Boreas and leaning back against the operating table. Boreas thought he caught a flicker of something in Nestor’s eye, a momentary flash of nervousness.
‘Hephaestus says my eye might have shifted in the wound, and he recommended that you examine it,’ Boreas said quickly, looking directly at the Apothecary.
‘Perhaps it became dislodged at Vartoth,’ suggested Nestor, standing upright and indicating for Boreas to lie down on the table. The Interrogator-Chaplain did so, staring up at the bright lamp directly above the examination slab. Nestor disappeared for a moment before returning with one of his instruments, with which he gently probed at the cauterised flesh on the right side of Boreas’s face. Most of it was in fact artificial flesh grafted on the metal plate that replaced much of Boreas’s temple, cheek and brow. He could feel the point dully prodding at his face as the Apothecary examined the old wound. With a grunt, Nestor straightened up.
‘There seems to be some tearing on the graft, nothing serious,’ Nestor commented. ‘Is it causing you discomfort?’
‘No more than usual,’ said Boreas, sitting up and swinging his legs off the table. ‘Do you think it could worsen?’
‘Over time, yes it will. Some of the capillaries have retracted, others have collapsed, and the flesh is dying off slowly. It would require a new graft to heal completely.’ Nestor glanced around the apothecarion for a moment before continuing. ‘I do not have the facilities here to perform such a procedure, I am afraid. I will provide you with a solution to bathe your face in each morning, which should hopefully slow the necrofication. There is no need to worry about infection, your body is already more than capable of cleansing itself of any kind of disease you might pick up on Piscina.’
‘Hephaestus will be pleased,’ said Boreas. ‘He worries overmuch.’
‘Does he?’ Nestor asked quietly, placing his instrument in an auto-cleanser concealed within the wall of the apothecarion.
‘Your meaning?’ Boreas said, standing up and adjusting his heavy robe. ‘You have just confirmed that there is no cause for concern.’
‘With your eye, that is true,’ Nestor said over his shoulder. He removed the probe and returned it carefully to its place amongst the scalpels, mirrors, needles and other tools of his craft. ‘However, one cause for the loss of blood to your graft might be stress on the rest of your body.’
‘You think I need a fuller examination?’ Boreas asked, looking down at himself. ‘I feel healthy.’
‘That is not what I mean,’ Nestor replied with a slight shake of his head.
‘Then say what you mean,’ snapped Boreas, tired of this subtle innuendo. ‘What do you think is wrong?’
‘Forgive me, Brother-Chaplain,’ Nestor bowed his head in acquiescence. ‘I was merely making an observation.’
‘Well, make your observation clearer, by the Lion!’ barked Boreas.
‘Out of all of us, it must be hardest for you to be garrisoned here, away from our brethren,’ Nestor stated, raising his gaze to meet Boreas’s.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Boreas.
‘When we are troubled, it is to you we turn to remind us of our sacred duties, to refresh the vows we have all pledged,’ Nestor explained softly. ‘When we lament the inactivity of our post, when we crave the companionship of the others, it is you who gives us guidance and wisdom. But to whom does the guide turn?’
‘It is because of my faith and strength of mind that I was chosen to become a Chaplain,’ Boreas pointed out. ‘It is our role to pass on that inner strength to others.’
‘Then forgive my error,’ Nestor said quickly. ‘One such as I, who on occasion has doubts, and who must be steered along the bloody path we walk, cannot understand what mind you must have to walk that path alone.’
‘No more than I can understand the purposes of the machines in this chamber, or the secrets of the Caliban helix within our gene-seed, like you can,’ Boreas answered after a moment’s thought. ‘No more than I can understand the workings of this fake eye which Hephaestus manufactured for me from cold metal and glass, and yet he gives it a semblance of life.’
‘Yes, I suppose we each have our purpose here on this world,’ agreed Nestor, slapping Boreas on the arm. ‘Hephaestus for the machines, myself for the body. And you, Brother-Chaplain, for our mind and souls.’
‘And so, I ask you in return what troubles you have,’ Boreas said, seeing his opportunity to steer the conversation onto a track more to his liking. He was certain that Nestor was not questioning his thoughts or his loyalty, but the more he spoke about such things, the more Boreas heard the laughter of Astelan ringing in his ears.
‘I am content,’ Nestor replied. ‘I have served the Emperor and the Lion for six centuries, and perhaps if I am fortunate I may serve him yet for two more. But I have done my duty. I have bathed in the white-hot fires of battle and created new generations of Dark Angels. The things I once strived to prove to myself and my brothers I have now done, and all that remains is to pass on what I know and retain the pride and dignity of our Chapter. If fate and the Supreme Grand Master see fit for me to end my days on Piscina IV, I shall not be the one to argue against it.’
‘You are surely too experienced to be given such a mundane duty though,’ said Boreas, crossing his arms tightly. ‘With such experience as you have, do you not think your time would be better spent in the Tower of Angels teaching those who will follow after you? Acting as nursemaid to a Chaplain with a broken eye is hardly worthy of your talents.’
‘Are you trying to provoke me, Brother-Chaplain?’ Nestor said harshly. ‘I follow the will of the Emperor and I say again that I am content. Piscina is a recruiting system, not just some watch post or augury. It is because of my skill and experience that I can judge those who might come after. I am entrusted in more ways than you can know with the Chapter’s future.’
‘I did not seek to belittle what you do here, my words were perhaps ill-judged and for that I apologise,’ Boreas hastily replied, uncrossing his arms and taking a step towards Nestor. The Apothecary smiled and nodded in acceptance of Boreas’s apology. With a last glance, Boreas turned away and walked towards the door.
‘Brother-chaplain,’ Nestor called after him, and he stopped and turned. ‘Are you not forgetting something?’
‘I can recite the three hundred verses of the Caliban Chronicles, I do not forget things,’ Boreas pointed out.
‘Then you don’t want the elixir for soothing your face?’ Nestor said.
‘Bring it to me at this evening’s meal,’ Boreas replied with a smile.
Boreas continued down the stairwell to the next level in search of the other senior member of his squad. He paused at the landing and gazed out of the thick glass of the narrow window, collecting his thoughts. Thick smog obscured most of the view, so that the towers and factories in the distance were only vague silhouettes. A bird fluttered past close by, before disappearing into the brownish-grey clouds. As he watched it fade into the distance, he realised that the conversations with Hephaestus and Nestor had shown him that he needed to spend more time with the others, rather than dwell on his own misgivings. That they thought he somehow doubted them, that he was subtly testing them, proved to him that they had become unaccustomed to his company. Turning away from the window, he continued down the stairs to the first storey.
Here were the quarters for the aspirants, and Boreas knew he would find Veteran Sergeant Damas in the gymnasium with them, continuing the rigorous physical training they started as soon as they were brought to the keep. Although Boreas was in command of the outpost, the aspirants were Damas’s responsibility. Having attained the rank of veteran sergeant, he had been moved to the Tenth Company as part of the recruiting force. Like the others on Piscina, Damas had received honours for his conduct during the ork invasion. He, along with his Scout squad and the now legendary Sergeant Naaman, had infiltrated the ork lines and, after gathering vital intelligence on the enemy, destroyed one of the relays the aliens had been using to power their massive orbital teleporter. It had been a huge setback to the ork advance, and though Damas was seriously wounded whilst the infiltrators retreated, he had held off the ork counter-attack long enough for his squad to get away.
Damas was amongst the fourteen youths under his tutelage. Nearly half as tall again as his charges, even without his armour, he was a giant even by the standards of the Space Marines. When Boreas entered, the aspirants were seated in a circle around the veteran sergeant. Boreas listened in for a moment, standing in the shadow of the doorway.
‘Your first weapon is your body,’ Damas was telling his attentive audience. ‘Even before you are given bones and muscles like mine, I can teach you how to break a man’s neck with a single blow. I can show you how to crush his internal organs with your fists, disable him with your fingers and cripple him with your elbows and knees.’
He bent down and placed his plate-sized hand on the head of one of the youths.
‘With the strength given to me by the Apothecaries and my faith, I can pulp your brain in a second,’ he told the boy, who laughed nervously, eliciting more laughter from the others. ‘More than that, I can withstand any attack you might make on me.’
Damas instructed the youths to stand up, and pointed at one of them, telling him to hit him as hard as possible. Hesitantly, the boy approached.
‘I will not strike back,’ Damas assured the boy. ‘But if you hesitate to follow my orders again, I will have you thrashed.’
Chastened, the boy charged with a shrill yell and flung his fist at Damas’s abdomen. The blow would have merely winded an ordinary man, by Boreas’s reckoning, and it failed to even rock Damas on his heels. The boy gave a squeal and clutched his bruised knuckles. Boreas chuckled, along with the aspirants. The only vital part of a Space Marine not protected by his black carapace was his head. Hearts, lungs, stomach, chest, all were impervious to any unarmed blow from even the strongest assailant.
Hearing the Chaplain’s mirth, Damas looked over. Following their instructor’s gaze, the aspirants caught sight of Boreas and fell instantly into a solemn silence, their heads bowed. Boreas walked in, and clapped a hand to the back of the lad who had attacked Damas, nearly knocking him from his feet.
‘A brave attempt,’ Boreas said, helping the boy to steady himself. He recognised him as Beyus, one of the two hopefuls he had brought in just before the battle at Vartoth. He had evidently recovered from his crippling shock. In just the few days that had passed since his arrival, the boy was already changed. His head was shaved bald, and all the puppy fat was gone from his strong torso. The boy stood straighter, and his gaze was fiercer than before. Damas was doing a good job.
‘Run!’ barked Damas, clapping his hands twice, and with no further words the boys began to jog around the wall of the gymnasium, which stretched across the whole floor of the tower. Their pounding bare feet on the wooden boards masked the two Space Marines’ conversation.
‘I see things are proceeding well,’ Boreas started, looking at the running youths.
‘They are a good selection. The last two in particular show a lot of potential,’ agreed Damas with a nod. Then his look darkened slightly. ‘But only fourteen this season? The Tower of Angels will be here in less than half a year, and they will be expecting thirty recruits for second-stage testing.’
‘Would you rather we fell short of our quota, than passed on boys who will fail within minutes?’ asked Boreas. ‘If the quality is not there, it is not there.’
‘You know what I am talking about,’ Damas insisted. ‘I cannot understand your reluctance.’
‘You are referring to the eastern tribes?’ Boreas replied. ‘You think we should take our recruits from those savages?’
‘They are all savages,’ countered Damas with a shrug. ‘I see no distinction.’
‘And yet I do,’ the Chaplain replied. ‘I have told you before that they are too bloodthirsty, even for our purposes. If we still had a whole company stationed here I would exterminate them. Some of their practices are, well, bordering on the intolerable. They have stopped worshipping the Emperor, and have reverted to a barbarism I fear even we cannot strip them of with a decade of training.’
‘They remind me much of my own people of Slathe,’ Damas commented pointedly. ‘Perhaps your judgement of them is overly harsh.’
‘Perhaps your continual persistence with this matter indicates other reservations,’ suggested Boreas. ‘It has been several months now since we have spoken about anything else.’
‘I see the numbers of aspirants dwindling, and it causes me concern, that is all,’ Damas replied calmly. ‘I feel it is my duty to remind you of the options available to us. No disrespect of your position is intended, I understand that we each have our own duties and codes to which we must adhere.’
‘Perhaps it is their similarity to the tribes of Slathe that burdens you,’ Boreas said.
‘You think I perhaps yearn for my homeworld?’ asked Damas with a frown.
‘Yearn is too strong a word, I do not for a moment doubt your loyalty to the Dark Angels,’ Boreas replied. ‘It is a wise tradition that we are not posted to our homeworlds, for fear of what that might bring. Perhaps it was an error for you to be here, near a world so similar to the one you came from.’
‘I do not see it as an error,’ argued Damas. ‘My home world is now the Tower of Angels and has been for two centuries. Slathe is just one of many worlds I have sworn to protect.’
‘Then it is I who have erred,’ conceded Boreas with a gracious nod. ‘I do not wish you to think that I have any reservations about your performance. I am here as your guardian and advisor, I wish you to feel free to express any anxieties you may have.’
‘Then I am anxious that we have so few recruits, and that is all,’ Damas said quietly.
‘Very well, I shall note your recommendations in my journal, so that if we fall below our quota, no blame shall be attached to you,’ promised Boreas.
‘It is not blame that concerns me, Brother-Chaplain, it is the future strength of our Chapter,’ Damas corrected the Interrogator-Chaplain.
‘Then I shall make my entry reflect that,’ said Boreas. ‘Their numbers notwithstanding, you are happy with this batch of aspirants?’
‘All have improved their skills, and met my expectations,’ confirmed Damas, clapping his hands twice again. In a rush of feet, the aspirants gathered around the two Space Marines, attentive to their instructor.
‘I shall leave you to your pupils,’ said Boreas, and turned to leave. As he walked out of the door, he heard the veteran sergeant commanding his group to break into pairs for unarmed combat practice.
Boreas’s thoughts were disturbed. There was something amiss, he could feel it. On the face of it, everything was proceeding as normal, but he detected an undercurrent amongst his command. It was hard to pinpoint, but he could sense their slight reproach. Like him, they were frustrated, virtually marooned here in the Piscina system while their battle-brothers sought glorious battle hundreds, if not thousands, of light years away. Or perhaps it was only his own impotence that he was projecting on to them. The others chafed slightly perhaps at their posting, but maybe that was all. It was not entirely unexpected. Nestor, of all of them, seemed the most comfortable with their situation. But that in itself could be problematic. Had the old Apothecary resigned himself to his future? Had he lost his drive? Was he merely looking to his death now, perhaps jaded by his long service?
Before he checked on Battle-Brothers Thumiel and Zaul, the Chaplain decided he needed more time to think on this matter. He strode back up the stairwell to the very top of the tower, out onto the observation and gun platform on its roof. From here he could look out across Kadillus Harbour and up at the great volcano on the flanks of which it was built. The strengthening breeze gusted over his face and set his robe flapping, refreshing his mind. He frequently came up here when the confines of the chapel stifled his thoughts rather than letting them flow. He walked first to the south parapet, and looked down the slopes towards the sea.
Here was the industrial heart of Kadillus Harbour. Here were the massive docks where the enormous ocean-going harvesters came and went, and the high cranes and gantries that criss-crossed the bay to unload their cargoes of gas and minerals dredged from the sea floor. Factories spilt around the harbour like a stain, gouting smoke as they processed ore and smelted metals for transportation off-planet. Here were the hab-blocks, vast rockcrete structures crammed with the million-strong workforce of Kadillus Harbour. Night was closing in and soon the loud klaxons and sirens would signal the end of the day shift and the start of the night watch. When dark descended, the thousands of furnaces and smelting works would light the sky with red.
Boreas walked around the parapet and looked out eastwards. Here was the richer district, and close by the old ruins of the ancient basilica. Beyond the towering spires of the planetary nobles and the sprawling palaces of the Imperial commander, the Lady Sousan, lay Koth Ridge. It had been there that the Dark Angels and the Imperial Guard had made their stand against the orks. If that defence had failed, the two greenskin forces would have been able to unite and the planet would have surely fallen.
It was there, on that barren rocky stretch of ground, that thousands of Guardsmen and nearly one hundred Space Marines held off a seemingly endless alien horde. Boreas had not been there, for he had still been fighting in Kadillus itself. But he had heard the tales of victory and heroism with pride. The battle-brothers of the Dark Angels had fought hard and taken terrible losses, but their blood had secured victory and saved Piscina from being enslaved. Had Piscina IV fallen, then the orks would have met no resistance when they descended on Piscina V. The tribesmen would have been slaughtered or enslaved, and another world would have been lost to the Dark Angels forever.
Boreas couldn’t help but reflect bitterly on the events of the past five years. Once, an entire company had been stationed here under the command of Master Belial. Now, only he and a handful of the campaign’s veterans were left to defend the future of the Chapter. The Tower of Angels returned less and less frequently, and Boreas wondered how quickly those great deeds might be forgotten.
Continuing his circuit, Boreas looked to the north. The first thing he saw was the massive open apron of Northport, where starships landed and took off every week, bringing vital supplies and in return taking the mineral wealth of the planet away to distant systems. There was something amiss though. Concentrating, Boreas saw wisps of dark smoke snaking like tendrils from the streets that approached the starport. He could also make out the distant orange flicker of flames.
The Interrogator-Chaplain ran to the nearest gun turret and stepped inside. He flicked on the comm-unit and punched the stud for the command centre at the base of the tower. Zaul would be on duty at the moment.
‘This is Boreas. Have you received any unusual communications from the north of the city?’ asked Boreas.
‘Negative, there have been no abnormal communications today,’ Zaul replied after a moment. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Connect me through to the headquarters of Colonel Brade,’ commanded Boreas, activating the turret control systems. As the motors whirred into life, the comm crackled as Zaul fed it through the main aerial that towered from the centre of the keep. Manipulating the controls with one hand, he directed the emplaced gun to rotate towards the north, while he watched the long-range sensor screen. There on the screen, he could clearly see a number of fires blazing in the streets, the smoke filling the canyon-like roadways.
‘Lord Boreas?’ the comm spat into life.
‘Colonel Brade. I am currently observing some form of disturbance near to Northport,’ Boreas said. ‘Please explain the situation.’
‘There has been some rioting, my lord,’ Brade replied. ‘A few hundred individuals only, the Imperial commander’s security forces are attempting to contain them as we speak.’
‘Please inform whoever is in charge of the operation that I will be joining him shortly,’ Boreas said, looking at the growing blazes on the monitor.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary, my lord,’ Brade said, his voice terse. ‘I am sure the Imperial commander’s men are capable of handling the situation.’
‘I wish to observe these events personally, please inform the ground commander to expect my arrival.’ Boreas cut the link and powered down the turret. He strode quickly across the roof to the stairs and hurried down them, all the way to the first subterranean level. Jumping the last few steps, Boreas entered the fortress’s garage. Here, two slab-sided Rhino armoured carriers sat in the gloom, and three combat bikes. It was to the bikes that he went. With huge reinforced tyres, armour plating and built-in bolters, each was closer in size to a small roadcar than a motorcycle, designed for Space Marines to make rapid hit-and-run strikes inside enemy-held territory. Boreas found them useful for travelling the winding city streets of Kadillus on the few occasions when he actually left the outpost, usually to attend traditional ceremonies with the Imperial commander.
Sitting astride the machine, he thumbed the engine into life, its mechanical growl echoing around the garage. Boreas opened up a comm-link to the command chamber.
‘Monitor all local transmissions, I am heading to the Northport area to find out what is happening,’ he told Zaul.
‘I have your tracker on the oracle-screen,’ confirmed the battle-brother. The transponder built into the bike’s chassis would transmit its position every few seconds, allowing the other Space Marines to home in on its location rapidly should the rider encounter danger or fail to report on schedule.
‘Open the gate,’ ordered Boreas before gunning the engine and releasing the clutch. With a plume of blue smoke in his wake, he roared up the ramp and out into the twilight of the city.
Passing between the armoured bastions of the gatehouse, Boreas moved rapidly up through the bike’s gears until he was racing down the streets, his robes flapping in the wind. The occasional roadcars and heavy, slab-sided transporters on the road slowed to let him pass. It was at the height of the work-shift and the streets were almost deserted. Either side of him the grim buildings of Kadillus sped past, and he saw brief glimpses of the surprised faces of the few citizens on the streets. It was not often that they saw one of their mysterious, superhuman guardians, and some of the pedestrians began running along after him, shouting out blessings and praise.
It took only a few minutes of riding before the sky ahead of Boreas was thick with black smoke. There were crowds gathering, but they parted easily as he nosed the bike forward, more cautiously now the streets were beginning to fill with people. He spotted the dark red uniform of a Kadillus security enforcer, and swung the bike over next to her. The woman, her head and eyes concealed behind a reflective glass visor, gaped openly as he came to a stop just ahead of her. In her hands she held a lasgun, which began to tremble in her nervous grasp.
‘Who is in charge, and where can I find them?’ asked Boreas, leaning towards the enforcer. He dwarfed the woman and she was obviously intimidated by his presence.
‘Lieutenant-at-arms Verusius,’ the woman replied breathlessly. ‘He’s at the worst of the rioting. Head west at the next junction.’
‘Stop any more people arriving in the area,’ Boreas told her.
‘We’re trying to do that now,’ she replied, taking a step back.
‘Good,’ Boreas said, revving the engine and riding off. More and more security personnel could be seen as he approached the junction, another kilometre along the road. The citizens were more numerous as well, being held back by the cordon. Their scrabbling and surging halted as the Space Marine pulled into view, and the crowds parted to let him pass, shouts spreading out to herald his progress.
Soon he saw the front line ahead. Smoke billowed overhead and dozens of enforcers were stood in a line across the road. He could see an armoured groundcar parked nearby, and a small group of officers standing next to it. They all turned in unison as the bike screeched to a halt behind the roadcar.
‘Lord Boreas!’ one of them exclaimed. In his hand, he gripped a comm-unit, which occasionally squawked bursts of incomprehensible noise. ‘I’m honoured!’
‘You are Lieutenant-at-arms Verusius?’ Boreas asked the young man.
‘No, I am,’ said an older, shorter security man. He wore no helmet, and his uniform was a long red coat with gold piping. His face was broad and split by a dark moustache, his thinning hair cropped short. ‘As I assured Colonel Brade when he offered assistance, everything is under control.’
‘I have no doubt of that, I merely wish to find out what is occurring,’ Boreas said.
‘It’s been building for months,’ Verusius said gruffly. ‘There’s been unrest in the factories, people have started talking about the mysterious portents they’ve been seeing, like the freak storms in the middle of dry season, the mines all hitting dead seams in the space of a few weeks, strange mutated creatures attacking the ocean harvesters. Rumour went around that the astropaths were seeing whirls of blood in their dreams, and heard the screams of dying children. There’s been more fights than usual, people even getting killed in brawls, and now this.’
‘That still does not explain this outbreak of disobedience,’ Boreas replied. ‘Something, or someone, must have instigated this unrest.’
‘A starship arrived this morning and docked at the orbital station,’ explained Verusius. ‘A story began to circulate that their Navigator had suffered some form of attack, that he’d been dragged out of his pilaster with blood streaming from his face, as if every blood vessel in his body had split. We tried to stop the rumours from spreading, ordered a security shutdown on the spaceport, but word got out anyway. People started flocking here for news, then it got ugly.’
‘Why was none of this brought to my attention?’ Boreas demanded. ‘This information is pertinent to the security of our outpost.’
‘That’s nothing to do with me, you’ll have to contact the Imperial commander’s aides,’ said Verusius with a shrug. ‘If it gets any worse, we’ll have to give the order to open fire.’
‘No!’ snapped Boreas with a glance at the security officers. ‘There will be no unnecessary deaths. Allow me to assess the situation. I will inform you of further action to take.’
He walked further down the street, and saw that the rioters had built barricades of burning carts and tyres. They were throwing chunks of masonry at the enforcers, and hurling flaming brands into the buildings either side of the street. The security men and women had formed a rough line across the main boulevard leading to the starport, preventing the rioters access to the area, which was also close to the Imperial palaces. Boreas stepped up behind the line and gazed over the heads of the enforcers at the rabble further down the street. Those just in front of him glanced over their shoulders, startled.
There were some two hundred people in the mob, many carrying burning torches and improvised weapons of some kind. The street was filled with the cacophony of the riot, but Boreas’s keen hearing could distinguish every sound. Their shrieks and shouts sounded over the crackling of the fires, the splintering of wood and the crash of breaking glass. He could smell the smoke from the fires, the sweat of bodies, the blood spilt in puddles across the street.
The red splashes of uniforms stood out against the black rock of the road where injured enforcers lay, their comrades unable to rescue them in the teeth of the rioters’ fury. Boreas pushed his way through the line, one of the enforcers stumbling to his knees as the burly Space Marine eased past.
Boreas began to walk towards the rioting mob, as bricks and chunks of masonry splintered on the road around him. Within a few seconds, as the rioters caught sight of him, the rain of missiles faltered and then stopped; the shouting quietened and silenced. In a matter of moments, the Chaplain’s sheer presence had quelled the violence, his appearance alone enough to drive thoughts of disobedience from the rioters’ minds. Now it was replaced with fear and awe. Boreas was ten strides from the front of the mob, and continued his slow, purposeful walk. Just as the other citizens had done beforehand, the awed crowd split in front of him, forming into a circle as he stopped in the middle of the group. Only the crackling of flames and the odd chink of broken glass sliding under the feet of the protestors broke the silence that greeted him.
He gazed at those around him, their expressions of anger and hate now replaced by barely-contained terror. Many started crying, some fell to their knees and vomited from the shock. Others started gibbering prayers to the Emperor, bricks and clubs dropping from their grasp and clattering onto the rockcrete. Eventually silence fell, and all Boreas could hear was panicked panting and the hammering of hearts. None met the angered stare of the Interrogator-Chaplain as his eyes passed over the subdued crowd.
Boreas’s own anger subsided as he looked at the people. These were not heretics to be killed; these were not malcontents intent on rebellion. They were citizens whose fear had turned to anger, who were crying out for guidance and help.
‘Forgive us, my lord, forgive us!’ begged one of the rioters, a scrawny man in the uniform of a Northport cargo loader, throwing himself at Boreas’s feet. ‘We did not seek to incur your wrath!’
‘Be at peace!’ Boreas declared, looming over the huddle of scared people. He reached down and pulled the prostrate man to his feet. ‘Lay down your weapons, put aside your anger and fears. Look upon me and remember that the servants of the Emperor watch over you. Do not be afraid, for I am here as your guardian, not as your executioner.’
The crowd stood silently watching the Space Marine, casting glances at each other.
‘But we are afraid, my lord,’ the port worker told Boreas. ‘A time of darkness is coming, we have seen the omens, we have heard the portents.’
‘And I am here to protect you,’ Boreas assured them. ‘My brethren and I are here to watch over you, to guard you from danger. I stand here as a representative of the Dark Angels, a warrior of the Emperor, and I am here to remind you of the sacred oaths that bind our fate to yours. I renew that pledge here and now! I swear by the honour of my Chapter and my own life that I and my battle-brothers will lay down our lives in the defence of your world, whatever may beset us.’
‘What is to become of us?’ someone called out, a tall woman with blood in her blonde hair and a gash down the side of her face.
‘I cannot blame you for your fears,’ Boreas said. ‘But I cannot pardon your actions. You cannot rise up against the servants of the Emperor and go unpunished. I shall request that the Imperial commander be lenient, but I ask you now to give yourselves to the mercy of your ruler, and subject yourself to the judgement of her judiciary. Who amongst you counts themselves leaders of this disturbance?’
There was some murmuring and three men stepped forward hesitantly, their heads bowed with shame. All three were similarly dressed in the overalls of port workers, supervisor badges stitched to their chests.
‘There was another one!’ somebody called out. ‘He was the one who started it all!’
‘An offworlder, he was there giving speeches,’ another voice added.
‘Tell me about this man,’ Boreas demanded of the ringleaders. It was the oldest who replied, a man in his middle years with thick curly hair and a long beard.
‘He worked on a ship that lies in orbit, it was his shuttle that brought the story of the mutilated Navigator,’ the man said, gazing around the crowd. ‘I cannot see him here.’
‘Tell me about this ship,’ Boreas asked, leaning over the man. ‘From which ship did this man hail?’
‘It was called the Saint Carthen,’ another of the mob leaders answered. ‘A rogue trader vessel, he said. He told us that he had come from other worlds, where there was revolt, where dark powers were at work in the minds of the governors. He accused Imperial Commander Sousan, said she was under the sway of alien influence.’
‘The Saint Carthen? You are sure that was the name of the vessel?’ Boreas demanded, gripping the front of the man’s overalls and lifting him to his toes. The name had sent a shock through Boreas, as if he had been struck.
‘Yes, yes, my lord,’ he stuttered back, his eyes filling with fear. Boreas released him and turned away quickly, the gathered people stumbling and tripping to get out of his way. Boreas stopped after a few paces, seeing the enforcers walking cautiously forward. He turned to the crowd again.
‘Subject yourselves to the judgement of the courts, and praise the Emperor that I am in a tolerant mood!’ he warned them before striding off, his mind a whirlwind of dark thoughts.
Verusius stood beside Boreas’s bike as the Interrogator-Chaplain walked quickly towards the gaggle of security officials,
‘Many thanks for your intervention, my lord,’ Verusius said with a quick bow. ‘Your mercy does you credit.’
‘Punish them as you see fit,’ Boreas said, pushing Verusius aside and stepping over the bike. He had only a single concern now – to ascertain the truth regarding the Saint Carthen’s presence. If it indeed was at Piscina, it heralded far more danger than a few rioting citizens and bursts of superstitious unrest.
‘Remember that the weak of mind need a strong hand to guide them,’ he told Verusius sharply. ‘Benevolence is to be lauded, but weakness will only allow the cancer of heresy to fester unseen. It is not my judgement to make, that is for your lawmakers, but it is my suggestion to execute the ringleaders. They have betrayed their positions of trust, and this should not be tolerated. Chastise the others quickly and then return them to work, for inactivity will breed dissent. I must also demand that you find anyone who comes from the Saint Carthen, and execute them immediately.’
He did not explain that if Verusius did not heed the Chaplain’s suggestion, it might well be that the Dark Angels would indeed have to become executioners. The fewer who knew about the Saint Carthen, the less likely that its unsavoury history would be discovered. Verusius began to speak again, but the throbbing roar of the bike’s engine kicking into life drowned his voice out. Boreas slewed the bike around, the back wheel spitting dust and smoke, and raced off down the street. His heart was heavy as he powered his way back to the outpost, oblivious to the wandering citizens and patrolling enforcers he scattered in his wake.