by Gav Thorpe
‘I did it to preserve what I had created,’ Astelan replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Once before, the misguided had turned their guns upon our great works. I would not allow it to happen again.’
‘What great works?’ sneered Boreas. ‘A world that laboured for your pride? Ten million souls in chains to fuel your ambition? Indentured workers, conscript soldiers, all the fettered minions of your greed.’
‘I have learnt that the realm of the Emperor stretches over more than a million worlds,’ explained Astelan, as he pictured the vast factory-cities of Tharsis. ‘The numbers of humanity are beyond counting, millions of billions of them teeming across star systems, in space ports and on ships. Crammed atop each other in the hive cities, scattered beneath the rocks of the mining worlds, imprisoned in floating reformatories. I say again that we are all slaves to the will of the Emperor.’
‘To the Emperor perhaps, but not to you,’ countered Boreas. ‘You were created to serve, not to rule. You are a warrior, not a governor. It is your duty to obey and to fight, nothing more.’
‘I am an instrument of the Emperor’s will, his weapon and his symbol,’ Astelan replied, looking again at his interrogator. ‘How can you not see the hypocrisy in your own words? You accuse me of resisting you. How could I not, when your gunships razed the fields that fed my people, when your cannons destroyed their farms and towns, when your battle-brothers slaughtered them like livestock at the cull?’
‘We did what your actions forced us to do,’ Boreas said, pointing an accusing finger at Astelan. ‘It was your arrogance that brought misery and destruction upon the servants of the Emperor. It was you that sent them against us. It was you that condemned them to death, sacrificing their lives to protect yourself. You are a traitor, you have destroyed everything you have come across. Your sins have cursed you so that death and blood follow in your wake.’
‘My army fought bravely to the end, as I had trained them to,’ Astelan said, closing his eyes. He could picture his troops parading through the capital, thousands of them in rank after rank, banners held high, the martial drumbeat accompanied by the crash of booted feet. He remembered their last stand at the command bunker, as they threw themselves at the enemies outside, swamping them with their bodies. Not one had spoken of surrender, not one of them had baulked at their duty. ‘It was their love for the Emperor that drove them to such acts of desperation. It was their fear of what you represent that gave them the strength to continue, to thwart your parasitic plans.’
‘You call us parasites! Who lived in luxury while the people of your world starved and your soldiers fought over scraps?’ Boreas shook his head as he spoke. ‘You are an abomination, an abhorrent travesty of a Space Marine. Where you see strength, I see cruelty. Where you profess to greatness, I see despotism of the worst kind. Your heresies are beyond comprehension. Just admit to your sins, cleanse your soul of their burden, and you shall be free.’
‘You call this freedom?’ Astelan laughed bitterly, nodding to the instruments of torture on the shelves. ‘You call this the Emperor’s works? The Dark Angels were the first, the proudest Legion. We carved a path of light across the stars in the Emperor’s name, and now you surround yourself with shadows and deceit. Your mighty warriors ravage a planet for a single man, whilst star systems fall to the alien and the unclean.’
‘You dare to accuse me!’ Boreas spat the words. ‘I swear by the Lion and the Emperor, you will admit your crimes and repent your sins. I will learn everything you have done, every wrong deed, every evil act you have committed.’
‘I shall tell you nothing!’ Astelan insisted.
‘You are lying,’ Samiel said, staring into Astelan’s eyes. ‘You are afraid. There are secrets locked inside your mind, knowledge you would try to keep from us.’
‘Get thee behind me, warlock!’ Astelan roared, the chains biting deep into his flesh as he tried to lunge at the psyker. ‘Do not pollute my soul with your magic.’
‘Your soul is already polluted,’ Boreas said, pushing Astelan’s head back against the sweat-covered stone of the slab and holding him there. ‘You have but one chance to save it, and I offer you that chance. Repent of your Lutherite ways, beg forgiveness from the Lion and the Emperor. Your life is forfeit, but your soul can still be saved. Confess your wickedness and salvation shall be yours without pain, without regret. Resist and I shall be forced to save you from yourself.’
‘Do your worst, torturer,’ Astelan said slowly, closing his eyes and turning away from Boreas.
‘It is Interrogator-Chaplain, and I do not need your fear, only your compliance,’ Boreas said, turning away and crossing the cell to the shelves.
He picked up a brand, its head shaped as the double-headed Imperial eagle. He walked slowly to the brazier and held the brand in the flames, turning it occasionally to heat it evenly. Lifting it, he blew softly on the head, the dull glow burning brighter, wisps of smoke dissipating into the air. He held the brand hovering over Astelan’s right arm, and he could feel the heat from it prickling his skin.
‘Have Space Marines become so weak over the cold millennia that they fear fire, that mere burning will cause them pain?’ Astelan sneered.
‘There will be little pain to start with,’ Boreas explained. ‘But even you, physically perfect and yet spiritually corrupt, will begin to feel the touch of the flame, the caress of the blade, after the hundredth day, the thousandth day. Time is inconsequential. The purification of the soul is not an instant and rash process. It is a long, arduous road, and you and I shall travel it together.’
Astelan gritted his teeth as the brand burned into his shoulder, filling his nostrils with the stench of charring flesh.
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