‘And what of Huron Blackheart?’ The name fell from Porteus’s lips tainted with venom. ‘What has become of him?’
‘Regretfully, Porteus, the Tyrant of Badab roams free.’ Brand put out a hand to rest on Porteus’s shoulder. ‘I understand that this news must cause you grief and pain. Your hatred runs so deep that even the non-psychic aboard this ship sense it. But brother, you should not trouble yourself further with matters that are – for now, at least – out of your concern.’ The Prognosticator folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall. It was partly meant as a comfortable, friendly gesture but also in part to take the weight off his healing bones. The damage he had caused to himself during the fight with Taemar had been quite extensive and although he was rapidly returning to full fitness, there was still a way to go before he would take the field of battle again.
‘I mean no transgression, Prognosticator. I merely ask out of respect for my captain and for my battle-brothers.’ At last, a fiery spark of the old Porteus shone through and the former sergeant raised his head. He still made a point of not meeting Brand’s direct gaze, despite the fact that the Prognosticator’s eyes were mostly hidden behind the voluminous hood he wore. He kept his focus very firmly fixed on a point somewhere over Brand’s left shoulder when he spoke. The older warrior quietly admired his perspicacity, not to mention his observance of protocol. Even when he had been ordered to give up his rank, Porteus had not objected. He understood fully and had been compliant from the moment he had been returned to the Dread Argent. It was such behaviour that would be noted when he reached Pax Argentius.
Temporarily stripping Porteus of his rank had not been done with any cruel intent, but had been a necessity. The rules were there to protect Porteus every bit as much as his brothers. He had not been in the hands of the enemy for long, but by his own admission, he had been tainted. He saw the removal of his progenoid gland as the ultimate shame and violation of his position. From the whispers Brand had heard and the surface thoughts he had skimmed, he was not the only one who felt that way.
He would be returned to Varsavia, taken to the Chaplains on Pax Argentius and would be subjected to a battery of interrogations and physical tests. On the basis that he emerged from these without any major issues presenting themselves, then he would with very little doubt be granted his command back once again. Moreover, the lack of experienced officers in the Chapter meant that he would be needed.
This was what Brand had told Porteus in those early hours since his return. It was not the complete truth. Yes, he would undergo the interrogations and the tests. But his future was as unclear as anything Brand had ever known. He could not bring himself to give Porteus the full story, not given the sergeant’s mental state. The warrior’s depression was a very real thing; a black shadow staining his otherwise pure soul. Brand could almost taste his misery as a bitter tang in his psychic aura.
Physically, Naryn had noted that Porteus was in reasonable shape considering the trauma of close-range damage to his internal organs. Psychologically, however, the loss of his progenoid gland had left him bereft and with a tendency towards moping on his situation. Self-pity at its very worst. Whilst it was to be expected, could not be indulged any longer.
It was the loss of that progenoid gland that had flummoxed Naryn. ‘I cannot say,’ he admitted when Brand had asked him what would happen to Porteus in the long term without the Quintessence Sacred. ‘Perhaps nothing, but from research that I have been able to find...’
Naryn had swallowed hard before continuing. ‘He will most likely begin the process of shutting down. Without the Quintessence Sacred, without the gift of our forefathers and our ultimate progenitor, he is just a man. Large and strong, but just a man. He will fall prey to the ravages of time and he will eventually die.’
‘We all die, Apothecary.’ The thought of growing old was so alien a concept to Space Marines that it had shocked Brand far more than he had admitted.
‘Yes, Prognosticator. Of course, it may not happen.’
It had not been optimistically spoken. As such, Brand had made the decision to keep the full extent of the truth from Porteus for now. If the Red Corsairs had left him with a lingering death sentence, better by far to honour his deeds. The truth would come in time.
‘Look at me, brother.’ Brand’s voice was soft but held the edge of command. Porteus raised his head again. The Prognosticator pushed out gently and felt the shape of Porteus’s feelings. What he felt could best be described as a tangle of emotions that were coloured a dank shade of dark, moody blood-red. Pushing aside his sense of empathy, Brand allowed his superior rank and wisdom to take control.
‘What has happened to you is gravely unfortunate,’ the Prognosticator said. ‘Understand, Porteus that I have great sympathy for how you are feeling. But you are no child to be indulged. You are a Silver Skulls warrior. You are one of the chosen of Varsavia. One of the Sons in Silver Bound. Have faith in yourself and in the Emperor’s light and you will get through this ordeal intact.’
‘I will never be “intact” again,’ came the unexpectedly bitter retort. Porteus’s words were hurled at the Prognosticator and were so edged with feeling that Brand was temporarily taken aback. ‘Without the Quintessence Sacred, what am I, Prognosticator? It was my birthright. It was the mark of all that I have strived to be. I am now no more than… than... a genetic abomination. You would be better to kill me. Better that they had killed me on the surface than this shame.’
His words touched too close to one of the choices that had been discussed about Porteus’s future. Brand had fought for the warrior’s continued existence and to hear the sergeant speak so dismissively about his own life angered him. Porteus had gone too far this time and brand was no longer prepared to cater to his self-pity. The Prognosticator’s stance stiffened. ‘Silence, Porteus.’ Brand pushed the order out not only with his voice, but with his mind as well. Despite his display of defiance, Porteus found himself compelled to sit down on the end of the hard cot bed that was the only furnishing in the cell.
Pushing back his hood, Brand thoughtfully studied the younger warrior. ‘You have been tainted by the enemy, so much is true. But this was not your fault. You are capable of functioning well enough without the implant – and in time, there may be another that can be given to you. You know as well as I the value of the progenoids. We cannot spare them. Not given our situation. We do not even know if you would survive the process of a second implantation. Such a thing has never happened in our Chapter’s long history. You must allow time.’
‘I know.’ It was the sullen response of a teenage child and Brand felt a twinge of exasperation. He pushed himself forward from the wall and pointed an accusing finger at Porteus.
‘Enough of this. Stop this childishness. Stop this pitiful and tiresome display, brother. Focus instead on the trials ahead. There are none aboard this ship who would speak a word against you. This ordeal will be difficult enough and you will be your own worst enemy if you insist on this attitude. If death is what awaits you, then face it as a Silver Skull. Not as a grizzling coward.’ The words were cruel perhaps, but served their purpose well enough. Some of the darkness around Porteus began to recede.
‘I know.’ This time, the words were not so much sullen as grudgingly accepting the situation.
‘You have time before we reach Varsavia to cleanse your spirit and your soul, brother. Do not ever think that I have not noted your devotion to your recitations since your return.’ These words evidently surprised Porteus, but the darkness around him brightened just a little. Brand continued.
‘I suggest that you continue to pay due obeisance to the Emperor and to your teachings. My own duties, which have increased since the captain joined the ancestors, mean that I cannot spare much time to spend with you. The other Prognosticators will attend you in due course, but you will have to spend much of the journey home alone. To that end, I have brought you something that may be of comfort.’ The Prognosticator reached int
o the inner depths of his robe and withdrew a book. Leather-bound with ornately worked silver clasps, it was a thing of beauty. ‘I considered long and hard whether to loan you this. But despite your current situation, none of us deny your actions in taking a stand.’ He proffered the tome.
‘Is this...’ The warrior inhaled sharply and his eyes widened. ‘Your Orthodoxy?’ Porteus’s moment of sulkiness was forgotten as his eyes were captivated by its rich, deep blue surface. Unconsciously, he reached out a hand to touch it. He had expected it to be as cool as the midnight colour it bore, but instead it was warm to his hand. Sincere reverence shone in his eyes.
‘Aye, brother. My Orthodoxy. The book of the Prognosticator’s creed. Specifically, this represents my own modest contribution to the whole. When we return to the home world, its collected works will be added to the Librarium.’ Brand lay his hand on it fondly. ‘As you know, the Great Librarium houses many of these books. This is just mine, and this volume covers just the past five years. Its pages are almost filled. Imagine, Porteus, the collected wisdom and prophecies of the Prognosticators cannot be forever held only in the minds of my psychic brethren. Through the Orthodoxy, we bind that knowledge. We capture our dreams and vision and although it is the lesser medium, we contained them for eternity within the pages of a book. In this way, we ensure the knowledge and foresight of the ages is passed down to all the Silver Skulls.’
Brand smiled, more to himself than to Porteus. When he spoke again, it was with an unmistakable air of reminiscence. ‘The Orthodoxy holds predictions and words of lore that may not even come to fruition for many centuries. Within these pages are many of my own dreams, recollections and unexplained dreams. Those I have been unable to read and decipher, those that have not come to pass... those will be considered by the Prognosticatum and judged for their veracity as prophecy. Should the Prognosticatum decree them suitable, they will be added to the Great Orthodoxy.’
‘I spent many long hours in the Great Librarium, Prognosticator. But we were forbidden to enter the central chamber. Our instructors would read from the pages rather than let us fetch them.’
‘Indeed. Vashiro would never want the grubby hands of novitiates all over the books.’ Brand smiled again, warmer this time and continued. ‘The Orthodoxy consists of far more than just books. It is a living, breathing thing. Some Prognosticators believe that it is symbolic of our Chapter’s belief that we can only ever be as great as the sum of our parts. The fate and destiny of one battle-brother can impact on the Chapter in a variety of ways. Sometimes small, sometimes far more vast. Arrun’s death, for example, will ripple through our ranks and cause any number of aftershocks. But we will weather the storm and we will be greater for it. Actions and consequences, Porteus. The simple cycle of cause and effect.’
Porteus was studying the decorative engraving on the book’s clasp, a number of stylised skulls. He ran his finger over their embossed surface. He looked up at the Prognosticator and Brand knew the question before it was even asked.
‘You warned him, didn’t you? Captain Arrun, I mean.’
‘I did not. Prognosticator Inteus, however... did.’
‘And yet, he chose to go against your warning.’
‘It is in the nature of man to be independent, Porteus. As Adeptus Astartes, we are able to deny that urge more than most. Where Prognosticators are concerned, our ability and skill to divine the future is sometimes difficult to express in words. It can be hard to turn to your captain and forbid him from doing something. Understand this, Porteus, for it is important.’
Brand moved to look through the tiny porthole of Porteus’s cell. ‘The brothers of the Prognosticatum are frequently called upon to lend their advice. For the most part, our opinion is heeded and our decisions adhered to. At other times, a son of Varsavia will act on his own initiative. This too is always for a purpose. Unlike visions and prophecies, however, we cannot divine this purpose until afterwards. I will be spending long hours meditating on Arrun’s choices. I will be asking the question “Could I have changed what happened”, even as you do now.’
Turning back to Porteus, Brand smiled bitterly. ‘Let me save you a lot of personal anguish, brother. The answer to that question is always “no”. Do not linger on what you could have done differently. Instead, focus on what you can do to prevent it happening again. It is the best any of us can hope for. Choice is always ultimately down to the individual. The repercussions will happen one way or the other. But the choice taken determines the outcome.’
A thoughtful silence settled over the cell. Eventually, Brand tapped the leather-bound book. ‘Take this for me, brother. Look after it until our arrival. I want you to read it and I want you to consider its contents.’
‘Prognosticator… the honour! I am not worthy of this. Even taking my circumstances out of the equation.’
‘I am more qualified to make that decision than you, Porteus.’ The older Space Marine reached out and gripped the other’s shoulder in his hand. ‘You have borne much, but you have also more than proved your mettle. Read it. Absorb it. Learn what you can and later, when you once more wear the sergeant’s colours as I am confident you will… preach it. Remember, brother. Those who are most worthy are those who consider themselves least so.’
There were many rituals and rites that were necessary to observe in the wake of a commanding officer’s death and the loss of Daerys Arrun had been no exception. Once he had been brought back aboard the Dread Argent, a self-volunteered funeral escort had taken him to the apothecarion. They had carefully stripped whatever could be salvaged from his power armour – painfully little in this instance – and had then given him into the care of the Apothecaries.
Naryn had diligently stitched closed the gaping wound in the dead warrior’s chest where Blackheart’s claw had all but torn out his primary heart. There had been small pleasure to be found in the fact that the Apothecary had successfully reclaimed the captain’s progenoid gland. It had been placed into cryogenic storage along with as many others that they had been able to reclaim from the fallen.
It was a pitifully tiny number.
The toll on Fourth Company had been a heavy price to pay for the liberation of the Gildar system from the influence of the Red Corsairs and despite the knowledge that duty came before anything else, there were still whispers; secret, forbidden whispers amongst the survivors that the decisions taken had been rash. That the Prognosticators divinations had been read poorly. They were words of course that were never spoken within earshot of the Prognosticators themselves. The Silver Skulls were brave but they were not foolish.
From a company that had been ninety-five warriors strong, they had been reduced to barely seventy. It was a devastating loss to a Chapter whose numbers were already dwindling. When news of their efforts and the outcome reached Varsavia, it would likely not be well received. An empty, hollow victory from which little could be taken as positive.
A certain state of equilibrium resumed aboard the Dread Argent. Repairs that could be effected commenced and once the situation on the surface had stabilised, the brothers of Fourth Company returned to their usual routine of daily training and prayers. But with the loss of their captain, there was an air of subdued dissatisfaction and grief in the air that was almost palpable.
The Chapter serfs and bridge crew, the human workers and servitors resumed their duties, keeping themselves as far out of contact with the Adeptus Astartes as they could manage. Given that the Space Marines generally chose to keep themselves to their own decks, keeping out of their way did not prove that difficult.
Only Brand spent any time on the bridge. He had reluctantly inherited the mantle of senior officer and maintained good relationships with the bridge crew. He had personally written a commendation for Yanus. The officer’s actions during the incursion had been worthy of any battle-brother of the Silver Skulls Chapter. They were words that had not been given lightly but which had been received with great pride.
For most of the crew and warr
iors aboard the Dread Argent, things began to return to normal. For others, their worlds were shattered and would never be the same again.
We are pleased to see you again, Jeremiah.
‘You are?’ The Navigator’s surprise was gently amusing and Correlan suppressed a smile. Ever since Volker had drawn Jeremiah out of his shell, the scruffy little man had been a regular in the chamber that was now the heart of the Dread Argent. Correlan had come in several times to find Jeremiah seated, cross-legged on the floor in front of Volker’s tank engaged in what had largely been a one-sided debate. He almost invariably left food cartons wherever he went.
Indeed we are. If our instruments are reading accurately, we will have need of your services very soon. The Dread Argent will once again sail the tides of the empyrean. It will be most exciting to work with you at that time. Are we not correct, Brother-Techmarine Correlan?
Correlan inclined his head in acknowledgement of the stated fact. Repairs were progressing well. Without a Master of the Fleet in place, Daviks and Sinopa, as soon as he had returned from dealing with the various situations on the system’s rim, had drawn up a temporary roster for patrols within the Gildar Rift. The Dread Argent had not been included in that by mutual consent.
‘She is more than just a patrol vessel,’ had been Daviks’s words. ‘Indeed, she is more than just a strike cruiser. She is something unique. A testament to Daerys Arrun’s memory. As such, I will not allow her to waste away in this forsaken sector.’
Other conversations had taken place, too. There was a school of thought that believed Arrun’s work with the Dread Argent was tantamount to blasphemy and heresy of epic proportions. Wiring neural networks into servitors was not unheard of, but to take a fully functioning, non-lobotomised mind and connect it to something as valuable as a strike cruiser could be frowned upon and censure would be grave.
The Gildar Rift Page 40
