by Steve Parker
Dependence could be deadlier than the most lethal of foes.
If a Space Marine of long years’ experience could no longer wage war without the iconic armour and weaponry that were his hard-earned right, was he not less than the aspiring Scout he had once been? How could such a one justify his place among the legendary Adeptus Astartes? It was not one’s power armour or weapons that made one a Space Marine. It was the man inside – the body, the mind, the spirit, all forged in a training and augmentation regimen that killed far more than it successfully produced. Strip away all the tools of his lethal trade and you changed nothing; a Space Marine was still a Space Marine.
Forged on Occludus, and re-forged here on Damaroth. I am more than I was. And yet, without my powers, how could I not feel so much less?
Only another Librarian could truly understand. A power so great, so multifaceted; a gift of blood, of complicated and ancient lineage – it became part of the soul, woven into the very fabric of the self. When mankind was young, still numbering less than a trillion, people had doubted the evidence before them, doubted that a few could see paths into the future or start a fire with but a thought. The confluence of genetic factors that allowed the birth of the witchblooded was still all too rare. But humans had proliferated, had spread across the stars, the race exploding and expanding. And with the growth of their number came a burgeoning of that evidence. Now, without the eldritch abilities of astropaths and Navigators, without the empyrean fire and fury of sanctioned battlefield psykers, the Imperium would shatter and fragment, and the jaws of the xenos threat would snap shut over the human race forever.
Call us what they will, be it witchkin, witchblood, blackfate or any other name; it is we who hold this Imperium together, even as fools shrink from us and make the warding sign over their hearts when we pass.
He had tried to understand the fear and contempt others bore towards his kind, but they had never known the invigorating sense of freedom and strength his power gave him. To him it seemed that the lives of the ungifted were lived blind. They missed so much that was all around them. They would never see the coruscating aura that flickered and danced like living flame around ancient artefacts that had belonged to heroes or saints. They would never know the joys of watching an enemy’s soul dissipate into the ether after being wrenched from its physical body by a killing blow.
It was only natural that one came to rely on so great a gift – as natural as relying on one’s eyes to see and one’s ears to hear. To Karras, fighting without his gift was like fighting without one of those senses. Suppressing it by choice was like disabling one’s own arm before leaping into battle. Senseless.
Yet all Librarians knew the sword was double-edged. He thought back a hundred years and heard his khadit’s voice, deep and clear:
‘There are enemies in the vastness of space to whom your gift is as nothing. Never forget that. Some can suppress it entirely, even turn it against you. Faced with such foes, your salvation lies in bolt and blade, and in those beside whom you fight. Unleash your power with due caution, for it carries a price and, as with all things, excess is the path to one’s undoing.’
It was downtime, the end of another tencycle, as Karras recalled these words. Second Litany had been said, as it always was at the end of a cycle. Ninety minutes remained before the beginning of the next, but Karras had opted not to sleep. Nor had he gone to the Refectorum. Instead, he had come to one of the central keep’s many spires seeking silence and solitude. Here he sat, on a deep stone sill before an armourglass window, knees drawn up to his broad chest, looking out at a strange blue snowfall. It was dark and silent up here in the tower heights, and icy cold, but that didn’t bother a Space Marine. Karras’s breath misted in the air in front of him.
The moon of Damaroth was shrouded from view by thick cloud, but the glow from the fat flakes of eerie blue snow cast a chill light on the ancient stone floor behind him as they drifted against the glass.
So much insecurity still. So much doubt. He should have adjusted fully by now. Others had. He knew he was holding himself back. Still, he couldn’t feel entirely angry at himself. So many things seemed to hover just beyond the edge of his awareness, just out of mental reach. Important things. Things he would have perceived if only his power hadn’t been locked away. In frustration, he had almost considered tearing out the accursed implant, and not just once since the day of his run-in with the arrogant Ultramarine.
Prophet, indeed!
Karras had reached back over his head, groping blindly for the protruding edge of the metal casing where the warp field suppressor sat like a cold, steel spider on his upper spine, level with his shoulder blades. His fingers had brushed it, but there was no purchase to be gained on its surface. It had been sunk deep into flesh. Besides, he knew he couldn’t really pull it out. He believed Lochaine. The implant’s artificial ganglia had penetrated his spinal cord and linked themselves to his own. He wasn’t about to risk permanent self-paralysis.
I must bear it for now. The time will come.
He thought of the Megir then, of the terrible burden the First Spectre carried, of all he endured for the Chapter and the Imperium itself, suffering in faith and hope, his life-force being burned up far faster than it ought to be, all in the name of the Great Resurrection which Corcaedus had foretold. Shame hit Karras like a wave and he resolved to do better, but a darkness clung to his thoughts. The knowledge that Athio Cordatus would one day take the First Spectre’s place twisted Karras’s stomach. He didn’t think he could stand to see his khadit’s life-force bled away by that damnable throne. To know the Shariax was killing the First Spectre even now was almost too much to bear. He sought distraction – something, anything to bring him back to the here and now.
Outside, the snow was getting deeper, the flakes were getting fatter. So strange, that blizzard of gently pulsing blue light. So eerie, the blanket it lay upon the surface of the vast artificial ring. What manner of beings had made this inexplicable place? Were they still out there somewhere – a xenos threat to be purged in blood and fire?
Through the old stone archway on the right, Karras heard the unmistakable beat of a battle-brother’s footsteps on the long stone stairwell. The sound echoed up to him from far below. The approaching Space Marine still had long minutes of ascent before he would arrive here, but the sound of those footfalls had already broken Karras’s peace.
Perhaps that’s just as well, he thought.
He knew by now the identity of the one who approached. The climber’s height and weight were written in the sounds of his steps, along with much else besides.
It was Lochaine, Chief Librarian of Damaroth. Dimly, a part of Karras sensed his power, despite the fact that the greater part of his own was sealed from him.
When the footsteps ended, Karras turned to see the huge Storm Warden standing in the arched stone doorway, his face cast in faint blue tones from the snow outside.
‘I intrude on you,’ said Lochaine.
‘Not without welcome,’ replied Karras; a polite formality, if not entirely honest.
Lochaine allowed himself a smile and entered the room unhurriedly. He moved to the large recessed sill on which Karras sat and gazed outside.
‘Haunting in a way, isn’t it?’ he said of the glowing snow. ‘The Mechanicus remain at a loss to explain it. Samples dissipate too quickly for any proper study.’
‘The universe will have its secrets,’ said Karras.
Lochaine frowned. ‘We trust you as much as any, Death Spectre. If you do not understand by now the need for–’
‘I understand well enough. Forgive me. It is I who am the cause of my own dissatisfaction. I feel I should have adapted fully by now. I train to my limits and beyond, and I follow the strictures. I know only too well what I and my Chapter gain by my presence here. But still…’
The implant. The lack of trust. The need to set the core of one’s very identity aside.
Lochaine leaned against the opposite side of the stone wi
ndow frame and glanced out at the pulsing snow. He wore a tunic of rough black cloth belted with a thick silver chain. From the chain hung a small censer, a silver ball with aquila-shaped apertures. Aromatic smoke curled up and around him, clinging to him like the tendrils of some ghostly oceanic creature.
‘You have been resisting the hypno-induction process, brother,’ said Lochaine. ‘More so than most. We’ve seen it before, of course, but it brings only misery and difficulty. You must let go. We do not ask that you put your Chapter aside. Do we not honour all who stand by the Old Accords? You do no one any favours, least of all yourself. The honour of the Death Spectres will be better served by dropping your barriers. Embrace the Watch as it waits to embrace you. There is great glory to be earned. Do most of the veterans who return not make the rank of captain in time? And how many of those went on to become Chapter Masters? The number might surprise you.’
Karras shivered at that.
Become the master of his Chapter and slowly petrify on the cold seat of the Shariax? Better a death in battle. Better anything but that.
And there it was; the reason he resisted so hard.
I fight out of loyalty to the Megir and to the Order, but it is more than that. I fight out of guilt. I know how he suffers on our behalf.
If Lochaine detected his sudden chill, he chose to let it go unmentioned.
And yet, Karras thought, it was the Megir and the Menrahir[19] who put me forward for Deathwatch service. They would not do so simply to honour me. There is greater purpose to all they do. Emperor, grant me the faith I need to serve that purpose without question. Therein lies my true duty.
Karras met the eyes of the Deathwatch Librarian.
‘Have I been a fool, brother? Is that how you see me?’
Lochaine smiled.
‘If only you knew how alike we were, Lyandro. When I was in your place, the Chief Librarian of the Watch at that time almost authorised a mind-wipe, such was my resistance. The Watch Commander, too, thought me beyond all hope of full induction. He judged my recruitment a mistake, but my brothers in the Watch Librarius would not relent. Loyalty is a fine quality, Lyandro, and there is no such thing as too much. But how one’s loyalties are served and how they are best placed is a thing that needs great consideration.
‘Stop fighting it. Let yourself be the warrior this Imperium needs. Service to the Watch does not last forever. It is only temporary.’
‘It does not seem so temporary for you,’ Karras countered.
Lochaine nodded. ‘Many fear permanent secondment at first, eager to return to their brothers, especially before the hypno-induction takes root fully. The Watch makes higher demands of some than of others. But I came to terms with that long ago. The honour of the Storm Wardens is served better by my continued presence here. My name will be writ large in the Halls of Honour when I am gone. Many of my kills already grace the chambers of the Great Ossuary. I am as proud to be Deathwatch as I am to be a Storm Warden. I have made a difference. Brothers survived to return to their Chapters with honour because I stood beside them. I would serve an eternity for that alone. We are the line between life and death to our kill-teams, Lyandro. We live forever in the memories of those we lead. I no longer see things as I once did. Nor shall you.’
Karras gazed out beyond the cold armourglass pane.
‘Hypno-induction changes the very way we think. I do not wish to lose my self.’
‘Nothing is lost, only better shaped to fit needs, as it was when you rose from neophyte to battle-brother. Or would you return to Occludus in disgrace, your mind wiped of all you have seen and learned here? How would that serve the honour of those you love?’
Karras nodded thoughtfully. He realised he would rather die than allow such events to unfold. That was no idle assertion. It was sincere. He had crossed a bridge, and the weight on his soul seemed to rise, to lift away and dissipate like disturbed crows scattering into a winter sky.
Lochaine saw it on his face, that change, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
‘I will be all the Deathwatch asks,’ said Karras, resolute. ‘I will honour the accords. You have my word.’
Lochaine didn’t have to read the Death Spectre’s aura to believe it.
‘I am glad we have reached this point, brother. In truth, we could wait no longer. Things are about to change, for you and for all who have answered the call. Preparatory training is drawing to an end. In seven more cycles, you will be called to take Second Oath. Hypno-induction must be completed before then because, after Second Oath, you will be Deathwatch, and from that moment until the day you are released from service, it is to the Deathwatch that first honour must be served.’
Karras bowed, ready at last, seeing the need.
‘There is another important change you should know about,’ continued Lochaine. ‘Kill-team allocations have been finalised. After Second Oath, they will be announced. You will begin training exclusively with your kill-team, and unit cohesion will be key.’
That, at least, was welcome news. The quirks and moods of just four or five battle-brothers would be far more manageable than dealing with those of almost a hundred.
Lochaine glanced out the window again, his face revealed in profile to Karras as he added, ‘You’ll return to training in power armour, too, and with a full loadout. Second Oath gives you the right to don the black at last. The Watch sigil will grace your shoulder. Be proud to wear it. So few earn that right. Fewer still wear it for long.’ He turned his eyes back to Karras. ‘We do our best to recover those that fall and send their remains back to their Chapter worlds. Would that the number were higher.’
‘Brother Stephanus,’ replied Karras. ‘It meant a lot to his company that they were able to inter him in the sacred catacombs.’
‘He died well,’ said Lochaine. ‘As did the Death Spectres who served the Watch before him. May we all meet such a worthy end when the time comes.’
‘I fear not death,’ said Karras resolutely.
‘For you embody it in His Name. It is a fine motto. The name of the Death Spectres is less renowned than some, but know that it is well honoured here, despite your misgivings. I would not have sought you out otherwise. We expect great things from you, Lyandro Karras, despite the special challenges you will most certainly face.’
Lochaine pushed himself from the wall then and strode to the archway leading to the stairs.
‘What does that mean, brother?’ Karras asked the Storm Warden’s broad back. ‘Special challenges?’
‘Just a few more tencycles, Death Spectre,’ said Lochaine as he began his long descent. ‘We shall speak again after Second Oath.’
15
The flashlights of the enforcers cast broad beams through the glittering, frost-filled air. Neither Varlan nor her trusty aides needed much light themselves – even the darkest shadows surrendered detail to their top-of-the-line augmetics – but the enforcer squads Lord Sannra had ordered to escort her would have been as blind as earthworms down here without their gear. It was a flustered Sannra, too, who had ordered the railways cleared so that several Viper LAVs[20] could push deep into the mines unhindered, carrying Varlan and her escort. And here they were at last, in the very hall where Ordimas had witnessed the ceremony of the strange and seedy cult.
No bodies, no lit lamps, no sign that anyone had been here recently save recent ash in the wall sconces and braziers, and a profusion of tracks on the icy stone floor. Yes. Lots of foot traffic. Oroga was crouched over, studying it while Myrda stood watching Varlan’s back, her awareness electrically charged to every sound around them. Both the twins were on code orange, ready to respond to any threat.
Oroga looked up and nodded at Varlan.
The tracks are recent, then. They fit Ordimas’s experience exactly.
Varlan’s gaze moved to the black mouth of the tunnel that led away from the rear of the hall’s elevated stage. It was along that tunnel her answers lay.
Looking at the stage, she shuddered, remembering all t
oo sharply the sights she’d seen through Asset 16’s opticom.
Here. It all happened right here.
Footsteps sounded behind her, and Varlan turned to find Lieutenant Borges approaching, breath misting from the muzzle filters of his rebreather. He stopped a few steps in front of Myrda, who had automatically positioned herself to block his approach. ‘You were right, ma’am,’ he said, speaking past the deceptively slim bodyguard, voice muffled by his apparatus. ‘Recent activity. Too many tracks to make head or tail of.’
Varlan removed her own rebreather to reply. She needn’t have, but the strap was pulling painfully at her hair and she wanted to adjust it. The next breath was icy sharp in her lungs, but not intolerable. The powered thermasuit the enforcers had lent her kept her body at a steady temperature, but that too bothered her. It felt close and hot, even in the airy, ice-rimed hall. The control module was belted at her lower back. In a moment, she decided, she would ask Myrda to adjust it.
‘I did not expect to find anyone here, lieutenant, but you will take the matter more seriously now, I presume.’
The officer stiffened. ‘I assure you, ma’am, I never take my duties any less than that. As I told you, this section of the Underworks has been abandoned for centuries. It was listed as stripped and locked down. Only a mine administrator or a tech-priest could have reopened it.’
‘Then a mine administrator or a tech-priest is clearly part of the insurgency.’
‘Insurgency? Come now, ma’am. Surely this is just a group of religious nuts who’ve breathed in a little too much soledite dust.’
‘How many people have been reported missing in the last year, lieutenant? How many of those resurfaced soon after. How many children were born in Cholixe? More or less than in preceding years? How much equipment and provision went mysteriously unaccounted for? You see accidents, population increase and theft as all quite separate. I tell you now that they are not. The Civitas here on Chiaro have been caught sleeping. You are damned lucky I arrived when I did. Who can say how close the enemy’s knife was to your own throat?’
