Hammer and Bolter 6

by Christian Dunn

  What am I reading? I don’t read like a normal person. I tend to have a number of books on the go at the same time. I leave books all over my house in various stages of completion and let them call out to me as I pass. I’m in the middle of re-reading the Horus Heresy series and re-loving them. Listening to - James Swallow’s brilliant Garro adventures. I bought one of my sons Jonathan Green’s Fighting Fantasy gamebook Bloodbones for Christmas and now that he has completed it I find myself rolling the dice. In brief non-fiction bursts, Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Everything. I’m also slowly getting through Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Complete Sherlock Holmes. I’ve nearly completed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo but appear to have lost it. Can anyone tell me what happens in the end? What else? Of course, I get the brilliant Hammer and Bolter every month : )

  Which book (either BL or non-BL) do you wish you’d written and why?

  Good question. To which I’m going to have to cheat and ignore the ‘or’. I wish I’d written the Eisenhorn trilogy by Dan Abnett. For me, beyond having a great story and engaging characters, Eisenhorn leant the Warhammer 40,000 universe a texture that many Black Library novels that followed (including my own) have benefitted from. The tabletop game and the wonderful artwork that goes hand in hand with the setting contribute to this but I revel in the details that are layered into the Eisenhorn novels. Good job, Dan! The non-BL book that I really wish I’d written is Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, simply because it is a work of genius. Clever and entertaining; experimental and popular – how many authors can pull that off?

  Phalanx

  Ben Counter

  Chapter 7

  ‘And what,’ said Captain Borganor of the Howling Griffons, ‘does this excuse?’

  The court was not as vocal as it had been after Varnica’s evidence. Instead, it simmered. The Howling Griffons murmured oaths and spat on the ground. The Imperial Fists tried to stay impartial but they could not keep the disdain from their faces as N’Kalo’s testimony had come to an end. Reinez had fought to remain silent, eyes closed, face downturned and grim.

  ‘How many of my battle-brothers does this return from their tombs?’ continued Borganor. ‘The Soul Drinkers intervened in some backwater spat. What does this say about them? They still fought the Imperial divine right. All they have achieved to tickle Commander N’Kalo’s sense of righteousness is the deliverance of one band of savages to Throne knows what fate. Are we to absolve Sarpedon of my own brethren’s fall? Will someone speak for the Howling Griffons?’

  ‘Or for the Crimson Fists?’ interjected Reinez. ‘What have the Eshkeen done to earn a voice in this court? Every one of my fallen brothers is worth a thousand times the heathens the Soul Drinkers saved!’

  ‘If I may,’ interrupted Gethsemar of the Angels Sanguine, ‘I feel I can shed a little more light on the matters pertinent to the fate of the Soul Drinkers.’

  ‘What could you say, you gilded peacock?’ spat Reinez.

  ‘Reinez, you will yield the floor!’ demanded Chapter Master Vladimir.

  ‘What has his kind suffered at Sarpedon’s hand?’ retorted Reinez. ‘He comes here for nothing more than the spectacle of this mutant! This is entertainment for him! He treats the sacred ground of the Phalanx like a sideshow!’

  ‘Your objections,’ said Vladimir coldly, ‘are noted. Commander Gethsemar, say your piece.’

  Gethsemar waited a moment, as if to ensure that all the attention of the court was on him. The mask he wore now had no tears, and the forehead and cheeks were inscribed with High Gothic text. ‘Indeed, my piece is more relevant than any of the protestations Captain Reinez has yet made,’ he said. ‘And I feel that few will recall words more incandescent in this matter than those I have to say now.’

  ‘Get on with it, you popinjay,’ muttered Reinez.

  ‘The Sanguinary Priests of my order,’ continued Gethsemar, ‘have long conducted studies into the link between the gene-seed every Space Marine carries within him and the blessed flesh of our primarchs, after whose characteristics the gene-seed of the original eighteen Legions was modelled. Indeed, much had been revealed to us of holy Sanguinius, the father of our own Chapter, and thus we gain revelations of him that steel our souls on the eve of battle. It so happened that the Angels Sanguine came into possession of a sample of gene-seed originating from the Soul Drinkers Chapter, delivered unto us in the hope that we could ascertain if their rebellion was founded in a corruption of such gene-seed.’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’ said Sarpedon. ‘Which brother of mine supplied it?’

  ‘No brother of yours, I fear,’ said Gethsemar. ‘It was given to us by the Soul Drinker to whom it belonged, one who had defied your usurping of the Chapter’s command and sought, through Inquisitorial means, a way to exact his revenge.’

  ‘Michairas,’ said Sarpedon bleakly. ‘I thought I had killed him. I did so at the second time of asking, on Stratix Luminae. I underestimated my old novice. He still tries for revenge, even after death.’

  ‘And he has it,’ continued Gethsemar. ‘Space Marines of the court, Lord Justice, the Sanguinary Priests went about their research in the expectation that they would find the blueprint of Rogal Dorn’s own flesh as the starting point for the Soul Drinkers’ gene-seed. But they did not.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Sarpedon.

  ‘I am saying that Rogal Dorn is not your primarch,’ said Gethsemar simply. ‘I cannot say who is. The Sanguinary Priests have yet to complete their discourses on the matter. But Dorn’s gene-seed is among the most stable and recognisable of all those among the Adeptus Astartes, and there can be no doubt that the Soul Drinkers do not possess it. This is the news I came to the Phalanx to deliver. That is why the Angels Sanguine sought a place at this court.’

  Sarpedon pushed against his restraints, half-clambering out of the accused’s pulpit. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘You have taken everything from us! Our freedom! Our war! You will not take away Rogal Dorn!’

  ‘The defendant will be silent!’ yelled Vladimir, above the sound of dozens of bolt pistols being drawn. Every weapon in the dome was being aimed then at Sarpedon, in case he burst through his restraints to do violence to Gethsemar. Lysander stood between Sarpedon and Gethsemar, ready to slam Sarpedon into the ground if he showed any signs of breaking free.

  Reinez did not move. He had seen all the damage done to Sarpedon that could be done. For the first time since he had come to the Phalanx, there was a smirk on his face.

  Brother Sennon limped through the Atoning Halls, barely drawing a glance from the Soul Drinkers who sat in its cells, chained to the walls waiting for a decision to be made in the Observatory of Dornian Majesty. The news of Daenyathos’s survival had left them as confused as elated. The Philosopher-Soldier’s presence there had been brief, a few seconds, before the Dreadnought had been sealed away, and now none of the Soul Drinkers could be completely sure they had seen him at all. Their minds were occupied as the single pilgrim walked down the corridor.

  Two Imperial Fists walked behind him as guards, but Sennon looked in more danger from his own health than from the Soul Drinkers. His skin was bluish and sweating, his eyes rimmed with red, his shoulders slumped as if he could barely hold up his own weight. His breath was a painful wheeze.

  He passed the cell where Sergeant Salk was held. The sergeant was exhausted, his arms bruised from forcing against his restraints long past the point where it was obvious he would not break free. Other Soul Drinkers were in prayer or simply at rest, half their minds shut off while the other half watched, a Space Marine’s habit made possible by the catalepsean node each had implanted between the hemispheres of his brain. The Soul Drinkers had been fed by regular servitor rounds, but that was the sole concession made to their comfort. Since Daenyathos had been sealed away they had been silent, every one contemplating his situation in his own way, eager for news of Sarpedon and the trial but unwilling to beg their Imperial Fists captors for it.

  One cell held Chaplain Ikti
nos. This cell had been sealed, so no other Soul Drinker could see or hear the Chaplain. Iktinos’s rhetoric was considered one of the biggest threats to keeping the Soul Drinkers captive, and so a steel plate had been welded over the bars of his cell. The Soul Drinkers who had made up his flock, those who had lost their officers and gone to Iktinos for leadership, had been spread out through the Atoning Halls to minimise their ability to conspire. Sennon passed the sealed cell and touched it with two fingers, murmuring a prayer for Iktinos’s soul.

  Sennon halted at Captain Luko’s cell, and knelt on the floor.

  ‘Take care,’ said Luko. ‘You don’t look like you could get up again.’

  ‘I have come to pray for you,’ said Sennon.

  ‘Pray for yourself,’ replied Luko. ‘All the prayers that might help us were used up on Selaaca.’

  ‘You are not beyond hope,’ said Sennon, apparently unconcerned with the mix of pity and scorn with which Luko looked at him. Luko, compared to Sennon, was a chained giant, and the power held within every Space Marine was not lessened by the manacles that held him against the back wall of the cell or the bars that stood between the two of them. ‘There is none so close to the precipice that the Emperor’s grace cannot bring him back.’

  ‘And what of those who have gone over the precipice? What about them? To pray for them is a sin, is it not?’

  ‘I do not believe you are among them, Captain Luko.’

  ‘You know my name,’ said Luko.

  ‘I have read of the Soul Drinkers,’ said Sennon. ‘The Imperial Fists made available much of their information so that my sect might better observe the process of justice. The Blinded Eye we may be, but we do not do our duty by remaining blind when knowledge is available.’

  ‘The Inquisition passed a deletion order on us, you know,’ said Luko. ‘They could probably hang you for knowing we exist.’

  ‘It is the Imperial Fists who hold sway here,’ replied Sennon. ‘The Inquisition may have its due from us once we leave the Phalanx, but that is an acceptable price to pay to see justice done in so grave a case as this.’

  ‘It must be such a relief to see such a simple galaxy around you,’ said Luko, but the scorn was drying out from his voice. ‘Imagine knowing what is right and wrong. Imagine believing, completely believing, that one way was good and another was bad, and never having to think for yourself about it. I have such envy for you, pilgrim.’

  ‘Then you doubt that you have taken the right path? Doubt is a sin, Captain Luko.’

  Luko smiled without humour. ‘Thanks. I’ll add it to the list.’

  ‘I shall pray for you.’

  ‘No, you will not. I will not be prayed for.’

  ‘You are in chains. You have no say in whether you are prayed for or not.’

  That, at least, was something Luko had no stomach to argue. Sennon knelt before Luko’s cell, eyes closed and head bowed. His breathing became quieter, and for all Luko knew the young pilgrim might have died there before his cell.

  ‘I have such envy for you,’ said Luko, too quiet for anyone but himself to hear.

  Sarpedon barely registered the journey back to his cell as the Imperial Fists marched him out of the Observatory of Dornian Majesty once again. The first couple of times he had sized up his guards and the route they took for the best time to attempt escape. His hands were manacled but he still had the use of his legs – the six he had remaining, at least – and he was faster and stronger than any of the four Imperial Fists flanking him.

  But he could not take them all down. They were armed and armoured, Sarpedon was not. The inhibitor collar prevented his use of the Hell, which might have sown enough confusion for him to flee. From what he had gathered about the layout of the Phalanx, it would be difficult to put any distance between himself and the dome, crammed with hostile Space Marines, before the alarm was raised. The idea of escape was now all but forgotten, filed away in that part of an Space Marine’s mind where rejected battle plans lay waiting to be dusted off again.

  Captain Borganor was ahead of Sarpedon and his Imperial Fist minders, at a junction of corridors where the science labs and map rooms surrounding the Observatory met the stone-lined corridors of the Atoning Halls.

  ‘Halt, brethren,’ said Borganor. ‘I would speak with the prisoner.’

  ‘On what authority?’ said the lead Imperial Fist.

  ‘On that of brotherhood,’ said Borganor. ‘I have no dispensation from Lord Vladimir, if that is what you ask. I merely wish to put the question to the defendant that every Space Marine on this ship has longed to ask. I shall not hold you long. As a brother, I ask this of you.’

  ‘We have all heard the outrages visited upon the Howling Griffons by the Soul Drinkers,’ said the Imperial Fist. ‘Ask if you will, but you shall not hold us long.’

  ‘My thanks,’ said Borganor. The Imperial Fists backed away from Sarpedon a little to give Borganor a semblance of privacy as he approached Sarpedon.

  Sarpedon thought again of escape. Or, at least, of fighting. He had beaten Borganor before, as evidenced by the bionic leg Borganor sported. But attacking the Howling Griffon would not get him free. More to the point, it would not achieve anything. Sarpedon had no particular hate for Borganor. The Howling Griffon was a victim of the viciousness of the Imperium, in his own way. Sarpedon backed down mentally, and decided that he would not fight here.

  ‘What do you wish to know?’ said Sarpedon.

  Borganor was close to him now. He had been as bellicose as anyone in the courtroom, but Borganor seemed to have calmed down a little since then. Perhaps the certainty that the end was close, that Vladimir and the other Space Marines were even now deciding how Sarpedon was to be executed, had cooled some of the fires in him.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Borganor. ‘I want to know why.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why you turned on the Imperium. In all the debating and argument, no one has yet understood why you turned the Soul Drinkers renegade. Was it Abraxes? Did your rebellion start with corruption? Speak the truth, Sarpedon, for there is no use for lies now.’

  ‘We saw,’ said Sarpedon, ‘what the Imperium really was. I believe we had already known it, but that the weight of history and tradition muted that understanding in us. The Imperium is a wicked place, captain. How many citizens live free of fear and misery? I doubt you could name a single one. It is built on cruelty and malice. And in punishing its people and committing the evils it says are necessary, it gives a breeding ground to those enemies it claims to be fighting. The armies of Chaos do not materialise from thin air. They are made up of those who were once citizens of that same Imperium, but who were corrupted first by its horrors. That is what leaves them susceptible to the whispers of the dark gods. Were the Emperor able to walk among us still, He would look on what mankind has created in horror and seek to tear it down. The Imperium is not the last bastion against the enemy. It is the enemy.’

  ‘Then you claim what Varnica said is untrue? That Abraxes never led you down his own path?’

  ‘Abraxes used us, that is true,’ replied Sarpedon. ‘He took our anger at the Imperium and used it to manipulate us into destroying his enemies. But that anger was there before he got his claws into us, and we killed Abraxes for what he did. I am not proud of how blind he once made us. It was his touch that gave me these mutations, and I was ignorant of what they truly meant until Abraxes was gone. But he did not teach us to despise the Imperium. We managed that on our own.’

  Borganor shook his head. ‘So deep your delusions cut that you see them only as truth,’ he said.

  ‘I am minded to say the same about you, captain.’

  ‘I begged of Vladimir the right to kill you myself,’ continued Borganor. ‘To pay you back for all my battle-brothers you killed. For Librarian Mercaeno, a man far better than any of your brethren.’

  ‘And did he grant you that right?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘You could do it now,’ said Sarpedon calmly.
‘These Imperial Fists would not turn their guns on you. You would finish me off before they could stop you, I have little doubt about that.’

  ‘No, Sarpedon. I wanted to do it slowly.’ Borganor was almost face to face with Sarpedon now. ‘To pull your legs off like a child does to a fly.’

  ‘Because I took your leg?’

  ‘Because you took my leg. But I wanted to understand what could drive a Space Marine as far as you have gone, before I did it.’

  ‘And do you understand?’

  Borganor took a step back. ‘I understand that Abraxes warped your minds and implanted in you the belief that your rebellion was your own idea. There must have been something dark and heretical in your souls to begin with, to let his influence in. You were the weakest of all your Chapter, which is why it chose you as its instrument. You are damned, and death is too merciful for you however it is administered. That is what I believe.’

  ‘What a comfort it must be, Captain Borganor, to have the Dark Gods to blame for anything you are too afraid to understand.’

  ‘Brothers!’ came a cry from down the corridor. An Imperial Fists Scout was running towards them. He paused to salute Borganor. ‘Captain! Lord Vladimir requests your return to the Observatory. A verdict has been reached.’

  ‘Already?’ said Sarpedon.

  ‘There can have been little debate,’ said Borganor with a grim smile. ‘Good.’

  ‘Then follow,’ said the Scout. ‘The accused must be present. Any sentence will be carried out immediately.’

  ‘Oh, I do not think anything will be immediate,’ said Borganor. ‘Remember, Sarpedon? As a child does to a fly?’