THE WITNESS
Apothecarium
The Executioner’s Blade
Moricani had been engaged in a silent battle against his own bio-system for hours. He was desperately trying to find a measure of calm as the after effects of his triggered Belisarian furnace raged within him.
The potent cocktail of hyperstimulants, anaesthetics, pain suppressants and hormone boosts supplied by the implant next to his twin hearts was a heady mix. Whilst it raged around the system, it made him feel truly invincible. But even should he fight through whatever had dealt that grievous wound and find help from his company’s Apothecary, it might not be enough to save him.
Not that that was the purpose of the implant. Pater Cawl had given it to his Primaris creations so they could wreak the maximum amount of havoc upon the enemy before their expiry. And though his memories of the battle at Sixth West were hazy, Moricani was fairly sure he had done well at that.
What it would be to feel the furnace’s rush without the crippling, typically fatal injury that triggered it. What it would be to harness that power. Perhaps, if he lived through this ordeal, he could find a sympathetic bio-magus who could help him out with an autonomous trigger. In fact, if he made it back to Mars, he was fairly sure his contacts in the…
Moricani opened his eyes, just a crack, at the sound of power armoured feet thumping towards the apothecarium. Something made him close them again, taking as deep breaths as possible as two sets of Adeptus Astartes footsteps clumped into the chapel-like medical centre.
‘Two, this time,’ said an augmetic-fuzzed voice. Moricani recognised it as Vaarad’s. The insectile buzz of the Apothecary’s lumen-skull grew louder as it scanned the warriors on the slabs within the candlelit alcoves. A wash of azure light came over Moricani; it was his turn.
Azure light. Something felt familiar in Moricani’s mind about that.
‘One of them is that Lion-damned sergeant of the plasma gunners,’ said the voice of the Apothecary’s companion. It sounded familiar. Not Dothrael; it was too casual in its sentiment for one of the Librarius.
Gabrael, perhaps?
‘Somehow I feel sure he will be brought into line soon enough,’ said Vaarad.
‘So we’ll make a useful bullet shield out of him yet.’
Moricani fought the urge to raise an eyebrow. That was Gabrael all right.
‘Are you sure we will not be disturbed?’ said the company master.
‘Yes,’ said Vaarad. ‘All of the incumbents should be unconscious or worse, according to my data. This area is shut off. Zaeroph is busy humouring one of Guilliman’s spies.’
‘Good. He has much potential, that one, but entirely misplaced. Servitor, bring in the asset.’
There was a low purr, and the scent of auto-sanctic incense as something large – an autobier or hover-throne, by Moricani’s estimation – entered the apothecarium.
‘Look at this,’ said Vaarad. ‘This one took a psy-wound to the chest, and a bad one. One Danic Vesleigh, according to my auspicator.’
‘The ape with the eyebrows? Farren’s adopted squad?’
‘Yes. I’m scanning for empyric residue.’
Moricani heard the telltale chimes of a psyoccular auspex, undercut by the rising whine of a plasma pistol.
‘Unaffected,’ said Vaarad. ‘At least nothing that I can detect.’
‘Odd,’ said Gabrael. ‘Not that we should be complaining. What manner of curse is it, do you think?’
‘The plague appears to spike quickly, creating explosive psychic discharge, then recede to a dormant state,’ said Vaarad. ‘Whether it disappears altogether I cannot say. I hypothesise that in most cases it uses the psychic potential of the host body in the act of infecting others around it. Some are killed or rendered unconscious in the process. The results here certainly imply that to be the case.’
The plasma pistol’s whine descended once more.
‘It is those who survive to transmit the plague that I am concerned about. Unchecked psychic ability is the gateway to damnation.’
‘Will this one live?’
‘Unlikely. His second heart is almost as compromised as the first.’
‘But he might, though.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Then we can’t take the risk. Rig up the cannulas. And if that fails, we ready the incinerator. Ultramar be damned.’
‘Give me a moment, company master.’
Moricani fought to keep calm as the Apothecary cut into Vesleigh’s neck at the base, then pushed a finger deep inside.
‘Yes, his progenoids are still intact. These sinew coils are remarkably effective as protective measures, as well as in lending mechanical strength to muscle contraction.’
‘All the better for them to take a bolt on our behalf.’
‘Quite. Rather than looking over my shoulder, Master Gabrael, would you be capable of administering the sedatives to the second patient whilst I treat the first?’
‘If I can find a vein, yes. Though why we do not simply allow Epistolary Dothrael to wipe their minds clean I do not know.’
‘It is an imprecise technique. To obtain optimal results from these ones, they need to fight at peak efficiency. I flatter myself to think that my psycho-hypnotic adjustments are more productive than total mnemonic obliteration.’
‘As you say.’
‘The requisite materials are on that tray. Please make ready. I have more specialised work to do, and a limited window in which to do it. After these we still have the others to do, and the process takes time.’
‘Of course,’ said Gabrael. ‘Let us proceed.’
‘Servitor, bring forth the asset.’
Moricani heard the lopsided shuffle of a servitor on the move, accompanied by the hum of a hover-throne. It was followed by the sound of tiny autodrills whirring, and the faint sucking of fluids being drawn through a tube. With stimulants still raging around his body, Moricani could not resist opening one eye, just a little.
The scene was blurred, right on the extreme periphery of the sergeant’s vision, but it was soon etched into his soul.
A network of thin transparent tubes jutted from Vesleigh’s head and throat. They were bunched at his shoulder, tied into a thick cable filled with fluids that bubbled pink and red. Less than three feet away, the tubes were joined in a similar manner to the neck of a naked, over-muscled hulk with a heavy metal visor and metallic cat-o’-nine-tails whips in place of its hands.
An arco-flagellant. The perpetrator of some unforgivable crime, mind-wiped and turned into a super-weapon at the hands of the Adeptus Mechanicus’ most inhuman surgeons.
Moricani had seen a pack of them in action during the daemon wars of Terra, going from drooling inactivity to screaming, berserk frenzy at the utterance of a simple trigger phrase from their Ministorum masters.
‘Now,’ said Vaarad, tapping a sequence into the rune nodes on the side of his servo-skull. The azure light began to pulse, flashing arythmically as the Apothecary leaned in close. ‘Danic Vesleigh. You do not clearly recall the events of the attack upon the fortification known as Sixth West. In fact, you do not wish to dwell on the events of the past at all. They are hazy and painful to summon to mind.’
A figure moved in close, blocking out the light. Moricani shut his eye completely once more, fighting the urge to spring up and fight – an urge that would almost certainly get him killed.
Vaarad continued to talk from the alcove across the apothecarium.
‘Should you feel any surge of cerebral activity that is unusual, you will return to this state and remain comatose. Furthermore, when you hear a certain phrase you will immediately make ready for conflict, and concentrate only on those events about to unfold.’
Moricani felt a pain in the side of his neck. Just as his senses began to blur together, he heard Vaarad confirm a dark suspicion that turned him numb with betrayal and shock.
‘That phrase is “battle stations”.’