by Various
‘Several lesions and tumors are present throughout all major organs. Primary heart, secondary heart, multi-lung, oolitic kidney are all affected to varying degrees. Extracting samples for biopsy from each…’
A curette abrades a small matter sample from each organ, harvesting enough for later analysis, and, triggered by the continuing audio, I descend back into memory.
‘In an attempt to purge the Legion of the blight, as it has come to be known, all infected gene-seed is to be destroyed with immediate effect. This purging edict extends to all sworn brothers of the Legion who show any evidence of base level genetic malformation or taint.’
There were three subjects before me, all living, all denuded of their armour.
They were also shackled and guarded by armour-clad legionaries lurking at the tent mouth.
I already knew their fate, but had decided on the courtesy of telling them to their faces.
‘Gaius, Etiad, Vortexese,’ I said, my voice distorted by the rebreather. ‘You are impure. You have the blight.’
Etiad tried to rise, but swift gauntleted hands held him down. I closed my eyes as they were taken, my ears deaf to Etiad’s tirade.
‘I will need their bodies after you are finished with them,’ I said to the guards, inscribing each of the blighted’s names into the lexicon.
None answered me as they marched the condemned outside, but I knew I had been heard.
My instructions had been exact. No bolters, only blades. A mass-reactive pulps organs and shreds tissue. I needed their flesh intact if I was to fabricate a cure. A heart thrust, destroying the primary organ would suffice. Death was near-silent for these warriors, but on their knees like traitors.
The thought was an unpleasant one.
As keeper of the lexicon, I had effectively become an executioner. By scientific method, I determined whether or not a taint was present. I might not have wielded the gladius that had killed Gaius, Etiad and Vortexese, but I had effectively sanctioned their executions all the same.
I believed further study was necessary to understand the nature of the taint. As such, I sequestered several euthanised battle-brothers for testing and experimentation. I reasoned that if I could somehow unlock the gene-taint that brought about the blight, I might yet be able to reverse its effects. Of course, with the gene-stocks currently undergoing total purgation, any discovery at this point might be moot, but I was content to settle for a correct diagnosis and effective theoretical treatment.
The booted footfalls of the returning guards announce another intake of flesh-matter.
I did not look up as they brought the first of the bodies.
‘Leave it there,’ I said, gesturing to the empty slabs.
I only raised my eyes after the warriors had left. One hawked and spat as he did so. I ignored it.
I looked into the eyes of Etiad instead, but could find no compassion or guilt as his dead man’s glare. Instead, I set down my auto-quill and went to a bank of instruments secured in a rack by the bodies.
Cutters, saws, drills, I had an extensive array of tools at my disposal but it was a device of my own design that caught my eye.
An armature, it had four mechanical, multi-jointed limbs that extended from its power battery. I wore it like a carapace shell upon my back, the arms extended over my shoulders and slaved to auto-mnemonic responses much like my armour.
It was heavy, but tolerable against my transhuman frame. The burden was worth the effort, for my efficacy as a surgeon increased exponentially with its usage.
‘Let us see then,’ I uttered to the corpse of Etiad, the limbs clicking and chirruping as if sentient, ‘what lies under your flesh.’
I flit between past and present as the audio dredges memory but allows resurface between the conclusion of each session and the segue into the next.
For now, I am back aboard the ship’s apothecarion, a partially exposed system of organs awaiting my attention.
Delving deeper into the subject’s body, I extract sample material from the biscopea, haemastamen, larraman’s organ and preomnor. Minor growths and abnormalities are present in each. A tremor of consternation wrinkles my sweating brow. I had hoped for better results.
In the present circumstances, I cannot analyse omophagea, occulobe, lyman’s ear, sus-an membrane, catalepsean node, neuroglottis or betcher’s gland.
I am able to review the potential nexus of this taint, however, the fully matured progenoid embedded within the subject’s chest cavity.
It too bears signs of mutation, a slow degrading of tissue and form, one I am sadly all too familiar with. The audio log almost rolls over me now as I try to appreciate the magnitude of what is before me on the medi-slab.
This is not a fallen warrior that I minister to, it is a diseased one, a remnant that should have died centuries ago but endured through science and ingenuity. It is, by far, my most important subject.
‘Tissue samples from a random cross section of legionaries have revealed an end to the taint, though our numbers are so few as to be regarded as almost extinct. In order for genetic cataloging to be considered comprehensive, I have added my own samples to the data. Initial analysis is not reassuring. Further study is needed. If I am to maintain my research, I must obfuscate my personal results to avoid purgation.’
I remember well what I did, the bonds of brotherhood I broke on account of my desire and cold, analytical mind.
Lycaeon sat before me. He was stripped of his armour, his glare murderous. I was trying to ignore the bond I was about to break, my hand upon the lexicon where his name was already written.
‘What is your verdict then, brother?’ he asked, and I saw our friendship die in his eyes.
Soon it wouldn’t matter. In any case, friendship had become an outmoded concept when levied against the value of my research.
The chirurgeon clicked and whirred behind me. I seldom removed it anymore and increasingly sought ways in which I could bond more inextricably with the device.
‘Lycaeon,’ I said, ‘you are impure. You have–’
Lycaeon stood, giving me the old Legion salute. I did not return the gesture, recognising the scorn in it, but no longer the meaning or purpose. He then about-faced to his executioners without another word.
I watched him leave, a slight nerve tremor below my right eye, before returning to my research.
As an afterthought, I called to the departing guards.
‘I will need his body. Return it once you are done.’
The chirurgeon excises the last tissue samples for biopsy and my analysis is complete. Without needing to see the results, I estimate the prognosis to be bleak. Degeneration of biological matter in every organ. Projected life expectancy less than a solar year.
The arachnid limbs hover, awaiting further instruction.
I give it bitterly.
‘Stitch me up.’
Via a series of cables, I have linked the armature to my neural implants. It affords me total control, whilst remaining inured to the pain of the operation through strong anaesthetic.
That said, the surgery has been long and I can feel the smallest pinpricks of sensation flaring across my body.
Fortunately, the armature works quickly. I smell fusing bone and then the bio-adhesive used to reassemble my black carapace. Both will heal in time, or they would if I had any time left or if my regenerative capabilities were not compromised.
It takes several hours, and by the time it is done, I am clenching my teeth and near-screaming in agony.
‘All for naught,’ I rasp, rising to a sitting position.
As I swing my legs over the edge of the medi-slab, I hear the last few seconds of the audio log play to a conclusion.
‘The Crusade has brought us to Chemos and a reunion with our genetic forebear, Fulgrim. Within our primarch resides the means for renewed synthesis of III
Legion gene-seed. On Chemos, there are hardy subjects worthy of implantation. Salvation now seems likely, but my own plight, whilst successfully hidden and at the stage of minor degeneration is, based on all empirical evidence, unlikely to be averted. I continue to–’
I shut it down, tiring of it and the memories the sound of my younger self unearthed.
Slipping down off the medi-slab, I feel the pain of my self-inflicted surgeries anew and grimace as I pad along the cold apothecarion floor to the mirror.
I use it for full length visual examination. The surface is a dull slab until activated, like a blank slate of grey wall. As I blink-click, it reflects my naked form back at me.
Heavy stitching crosshatches my skin, which is thin and sallow. My face looks worst, skeletal and drawn like the corpses I dissect. My eyes have become pinched, surrounded by chasms of dark skin. Weary, I lean hard against the mirror’s frame and run a trembling hand through my hair. A clump comes back, threaded around my fingers.
An elixir stands ready. It will restore a measure of my vitality, and keep my condition hidden from others.
‘Lycaeon,’ I utter to the darkness, ‘your sacrifice shall not be for nothing.’
No answer returns, save for the echo of my own enfeebled voice.
I have to find another way, I determine. I consider the plight of my father and the thing that shares his body.
Where science has failed, I must turn to the arcane for answers.
I reach for the elixir, a distilled concoction of restorative enzymes and proteins rendered from transhuman donors. Their deaths serve a purpose. My need is greater, my work more important.
As I inject the draught into my bloodstream, I revel in its sudden potency. Every nerve ending screams with dagger-edged pain, synapses ignite like solar flares in my brain. I stagger, the effects almost overwhelming. It soon subsides, leaving me vital, renewed. Cognition, physical strength, endurance, stamina and haptic acuity are all enhanced. It is a falsehood, though. A balm for an untreatable illness that will outstrip the measures of retardation I have employed.
Knowing the elixir will not last and soon not work at all, I decide that I must speak to the daemon. That will also mean confessing to my father. I will not do so like this, however.
‘My armour,’ I utter to the shadows.
A shuffling form responds, slow, yet still animate and dutiful.
A purple greave is proffered that matches the colour of the automaton’s eyes. My retainer is another secret from the Legion. His armour is older by comparison, the thunder bolt iconography worn and faded. A blade slit around the heart still lingers in the battleplate, a wound that cannot heal. The stitching around his neck and face is the mirror of my own. So too is his physiognomy.
His salutes, right fist striking left pectoral. It is awkward, but still dutiful.
I do not reciprocate.
‘Thank you, Lycaeon,’ I say to my vassal brother, feeling better already.
The Vengeful Spirit had changed. Horus had changed. But the tedious intricacies of running a warfleet had not. Warfare was warfare, whether conducted at the behest of the Council of Terra or the urging of howling gods. It always came down to the numbers.
The fifty-eighth petitioner to the Warmaster that day was a short logistician, principally composed of fat and fear. He blinked and mumbled his way through his request, eyes sliding every second – if not more often – to the pair of Justaerin Terminators flanking the basalt throne at the heart of Lupercal’s Court.
No one sat upon the throne. It was the throne of the primarch, and none but he might occupy it.
Horus was absent. The Warmaster had no time for petty concerns.
Maloghurst, the equerry of the Warmaster, sat in judgment in his stead on a stool by the throne’s dais. Were it not for his own great personal presence, he might have looked ridiculous. The throne was sized for a demigod, the dais tall, the court that surrounded it dizzyingly high and ornate. Battle honours stirred in ventilation draughts. Stars glared mercilessly from the void through armourglass ports. Blue shadows jealously guarded the statues and weapons set into the walls.
Horus was not there, but his presence steeped the court.
Maloghurst was insignificant in comparison – worse, he was far from the most perfect of Horus’s sons. His back was perpetually slanted, a cane forever close to hand – he was a fallen angel whose imperfections were made all the more glaring in his master’s shadow.
His back was broken, but his intellect was not. Twisted in mind as well as body. Maloghurst’s name had become a byword for fear.
The fat man’s lips stumbled to a stop.
‘In three days’ time, we are due to engage in the assault on Lamrys,’ said Maloghurst, ‘and you choose now to bring this trivial matter to my attention?’ His voice growled threateningly from behind his respirator. He wore his armour and his mouthpiece constantly, more or less. His battleplate had become a crutch.
Still, the logistician blanched.
‘I am sorry, my lord, but the correct scheduling of fuel distribution prior to the attack is of great importance. It must be performed before we approach the mid-system line. I cannot fulfil my role if–’
Maloghurst cut him off by rapping his cane hard against the marble floor. The crack echoed and multiplied from the walls.
‘All of us are burdened. Do you choose to consider your burden to be greater than that of the Warmaster?’
‘No, my lord!’
‘This is Lupercal’s Court.’ Maloghurst pointed to a wide arch. ‘Through there the Warmaster has his staterooms. I am the Warmaster’s equerry. Here you are but one step from the ear of our Lord Horus himself. You should be mindful of what you choose to speak into it.’
‘My lord, forgive me. I will make greater efforts. I require only a little aid.’ The fat man gulped. His attention had latched itself fully upon the Justaerin.
Maloghurst grasped the skull atop his cane. ‘Do not look to them. I could kill you myself without difficulty.’
He pushed his weight down upon the slender stick of ebony and heaved himself to his feet, and limped from his seat to the logistician. The fat man threw himself down on his hands and knees, but Maloghurst bent low. Grabbing a loose handful of hair and augmetic interface tendrils, he hauled the adept into the air, transhuman muscles bearing the weight easily, although his bones protested at the load. The logistician gaped, his mouth opening and closing moistly as he desperately tried not to scream. Tears welled from screwed-tight eyes to bead his cheeks.
Maloghurst stared him full in the face. ‘What would the Warmaster do, should he find himself in such a situation?’
The man smelled sour. Rank sweat and desperation mingled unwholesomely. Maloghurst suspected he would not answer for fear that the wrong response would end his life. He was correct in that assumption.
But the logistician was more clever than he seemed.
‘The Warmaster, in any situation, would find a way of achieving his desired result,’ he gasped.
Maloghurst admired the man’s calmness in the face of death. That, more than his answer, saved his life.
‘Yes! Whether that be toppling the lying Emperor or delivering the right amount of supplies to four insignificant cruiser squadrons!’ He released the man. ‘Get out. Do your duty without complaint. If I see you here again, I will tear your heart from your chest.’
Maloghurst turned and went back to the stool by the throne. Sparks of pain tickled his fused spine and pelvis. He gritted his teeth as he retook his seat.
Pain had been one of two constants in Maloghurst’s life for some time. The other was responsibility.
An unwelcome third had recently made itself known to him.
Vulnerability.
He was vulnerable, more so with each passing day. He had always been respected, but he had never been well liked. There w
as a feral mood upon the Legion of late. Old practices long suppressed now resurfaced – the savage face of Cthonia revealed as the facade of calm imposed by the Emperor was abraded by war. Rivalries had become more pronounced, more violent.
His closeness to Horus provoked jealousy. In a society of warriors, his attention to more cerebral matters marked him out for derision.
And so the distance between himself and his brothers yawned wider on the one hand. No great matter, were it not that on the other the gulf between Horus and himself also grew. No human or transhuman could ever hope to knowingly inveigle themselves with a primarch, but for two hundred years their friendship had at least bridged the fundamental gap between them.
Recently, Horus had grown far beyond mortal concerns. Ever since Molech.
None would challenge Horus’s authority, but they would dare to challenge Maloghurst for the primarch’s favour and the chance to influence the Warmaster. There was a sense of exposure growing in him that he had never felt before. Maloghurst had become a target.
But danger would not keep him from his duty.
‘Next,’ he said, with a heavy breath.
There were no announcements. No pomp. Another mortal was sent in from the antechamber where the petitioners waited without ceremony.
Rakshel, envoy for the Davinites, had taken up residence aboard the Vengeful Spirit. He padded softly along the aisle leading to the throne, bowing deeply ten metres from Maloghurst.
The equerry’s expression stiffened. The Davinites’ star was long fallen.
Before the half-man could begin his usual long, obsequious litany of praise, Maloghurst spoke.
‘I will save us some time. If your request is the same as the last four occasions you have come before me, Rakshel, then the answer is still no.’
Rakshel affected a look of understanding. On his furred, broad face it was comical. Once, Maloghurst had felt disdain for the Davinites’ degenerate forms. But since Horus declared his independence, he had seen far grosser deviations, and had learned that behind the ugly mask was often hidden power.
Now, he despised the Davinites mainly for their weakness. They were craven, scheming, always whispering to those stronger than themselves, and on the lookout for some advantage. In Erebus they had found a kindred soul.
