Seneca passed through the bulkhead, walking by the bustling crew and officers as he ascended the main staircase leading above the bridge of the Mare Nostrum. The strategium was more sparsely populated than the command deck below, yet was still swollen with the intangible sense of great import prevalent across the fleet.
The Eighth Company Librarian, Arrone, looked over at the towering Primaris Marine as he turned to depart. Seneca felt a strange pressure, light but insistent, play over his thoughts. He could not help but feel the same curiosity that every pair of eyes had shown him since he had awakened, but of the mind. He gave the psyker a respectful nod as he descended the stairs behind him.
‘Brother Seneca,’ said Captain Numitor without turning. The Lord Executioner stood at the main table, fists planted wide on its surface as he leaned over a swathe of reports and battlefield analysis forecasts. Tactical hololiths – from planetary to star system-level projections in scale – danced in the air, along with recordings taken from armour visor feeds displaying the intensity of battle in sterile, silent loops.
Numitor gestured beside the table. ‘Please.’
Seneca saluted, a harsh clang of ceramite that disturbed the relative quiet of the strategium. ‘Honoured captain, thank you for–’
‘We don’t have time for that,’ the captain interrupted. Seneca could hear the fatigue in the elder warrior’s voice. ‘Let us do one another the kindness of forgoing the pomp and ceremony, and focusing upon the matters at hand, yes?’
‘Of course, captain,’ replied the Primaris Marine. ‘As you will.’
‘So, Quradim. Your first taste of combat outside of training and simulation?’
Seneca hesitated. ‘I participated on two operations on the satellites of Mars–’
‘I am aware of those,’ Numitor nodded. ‘But Quradim was your first true taste of it, or at least that is what your record will state. You did well here. And that is more than my own opinion.’
‘It is an honour to fight alongside my brothers for Chapter and Imperium, my captain.’
‘Naturally there are those within the hierarchy of the Chapter that met the revelation of our Primaris brethren with surprise.’ Numitor spread a sheaf of transcripts in front of him as he spoke. ‘The Space Marine Chapters are martial societies, inured over the millennia to embrace ritual and tradition and eschew that which is in opposition to those conventions that form our identities and beliefs. Our weapons and armour are thousands of years old, our tactics the unchanged word of the primarch from the days of the Second Founding. Change is not a thing to be accepted quickly among our ranks, nor easily. So you must understand that your existence, even coming from the most sacred of authorities as it does, took time to process.’
Seneca’s thoughts retraced to the darkness of the hive, and the dying words of the Iron Warrior.
‘Our present circumstance,’ the captain continued, ‘will do much to allay that trepidation. The truth of the matter is that there could be one million of you, and we would still be sorely lacking in the forces needed to conduct the wars to come in this crusade. There are too many battles ahead for the Imperium to cast any weapon aside in favour of another, as Quradim has surely taught you.’
Seneca’s thoughts went to the bombs being loaded into the Mare Nostrum and across the fleet; weapons his squad had ensured. Weapons that would be used to destroy worlds skirting the Great Rift that were overrun by the forces of Chaos. And also the ones not so sickened, but without the resources to defend themselves. Numitor’s words cut through his dark thoughts.
‘Your skill and valour, and that shown by your brothers, has gone far to diminish the scepticism that some may hold. The primarch has decreed that we are to integrate the Primaris brethren into our ranks, and we shall do so without pause or hesitation. But if all of you new Space Marines conduct yourselves as your squad has, then it is but a matter of time before we are all brothers.’
Seneca stared at his captain, unsure of how to respond. The idea of accepting praise alone was an uncomfortable thing for him to process. He hardly felt that he had done anything beyond what he was trained and created to do, or what any of his brothers would have done had they been in his position. If he struck a foe with his fist, he would not think to honour just one finger.
‘And now,’ said Numitor, ‘to the matter at hand. I had suggested a commendation, but upon debriefings and the intercession of other parties, including my superiors, that decision was overruled.’
Seneca nodded. He felt no shame at the denial of elevation. Service was all that mattered to him. He would be happy to return to his brothers, and to fight under the command of whomever the Chapter deemed fit.
‘Kneel,’ said Numitor.
Seneca looked to the captain, uncertainty flashing across his features for an instant before he obeyed.
The Lord Executioner’s blade sang as it cleared its scabbard, reflecting the light of the strategium from its mirror-polished edge. Numitor raised the weapon, resting the crosspiece against his brow, before lowering it to Seneca’s shoulder.
‘Seneca, son of the risen Primarch Roboute Guilliman, Battle-Brother of the Eighth Company of the Ultramarines Chapter, will never leave this room.’
Numitor lifted the blade, passing it over Seneca’s head, and laying it on his other shoulder.
‘You will leave this place, and hereafter serve Emperor and Chapter, as Brother-Sergeant Seneca. Your helm shall be crimson, so all you lead will see you, and follow you into the crucible of war.’
Seneca swallowed. A sergeant. Leader of a squad of Ultramarines, eyes and ears of the company captain. The first to enter a combat zone, and almost always the last to leave it. ‘Captain, I–’
‘Rise,’ said Numitor, spinning his blade and returning it to its sheath. ‘You have earned it. And if for any reason you should feel otherwise, then it is a matter of you doing what you must, to lead and champion the Eighth Company and the Chapter, until you do.’
‘Yes, captain,’ said Seneca. His mind went to Ariston, Nicanor and Caprico, to Melos and Iason. ‘And my squad brothers? What of them?’
‘Your squad will be brought back to full strength with new recruits coming in from the Tenth,’ said Numitor, already back to studying the deluge of tactical data surrounding them. ‘It will fall to you, sergeant, to mould them into Ultramarines in battle, as the battle here has moulded you.’
Seneca nodded, his mind racing to the point where he did not hear his words until they had left his lips. ‘I only wish we had not failed to save Quradim, and those souls living there.’
The captain of the Eighth Company stopped his analysis of the projections. His eyes ceased roving over the facts and figures of wars being fought and about to be fought. He stood to his full height, turning his body to give Seneca his full attention.
‘People will die in the Indomitus Crusade, Seneca, both citizens of the Imperium as well as those sworn to protect them. More perhaps, by the time it is finished, than have ever before in any war our species has ever fought. Our duty as Space Marines, as the blades of the primarch and the Emperor, is to ensure that none of those deaths happened in vain. That they died in battle to reverse the tide of darkness that seeks to overtake the Imperium, and the human race. This is our task, and it will not be done without casualties. But make no mistake, we fight for nothing less than the survival of humanity, and if we should be among those dead to ensure that happens, then that must be so.’
‘I understand, captain.’
‘You are dismissed, Sergeant Seneca. We march for Macragge.’
Seneca straightened, gauntlet clanging against his chest in salute. ‘We march for Macragge.’