by Braden Campbell, Mark Clapham, Ben Counter, Chris Dows, Peter Fehervari, Steve Lyons
The cyborg emitted an ululating howl of rage and its attention swept to the gallery. Branatar seized the moment and dove forwards, still spewing fire as he barrelled into the giant and rammed the nozzle of his weapon against its thorax. A maelstrom of blades embraced him, along with his own fire, but he held his ground, grinning savagely as his weapon overheated. Sparks flew out from the muzzle as something inside it fractured.
‘Unto the anvil of–’
The explosion tore the combatants apart with a violence that threw them into the air as if they weighed nothing. Branatar crashed through the tank behind him, shattering the glass and spilling its contents in a viscous, unclean tide. The cyborg was sundered into a score of white-hot fragments that rained back onto the dais like molten hail.
‘A worthy foe, and a good death, brother,’ Athondar judged as Branatar’s world burned away into darkness.
Death came for him in a black robe, her eyes ancient in an ageless face that was as white as a bleached skull. She appraised him without expression as his senses seeped back from oblivion.
Athondar…
Branatar gritted his teeth and sat up. He was sprawled in the wreckage of the containment tank, covered in a residue of slime and broken glass, but otherwise intact. He whispered his thanks to the ancient Terminator armour that had preserved him, as it had done so many times in the past. As he turned he caught sight of the xenos creature that had spilled from the tank. It was slumped beside him – a four-armed monstrosity encased in an exoskeleton that shone a viscid blue. The thing’s elongated skull was lined with gills and its white eyes were set beneath deep ridges that tapered into a tangle of muscular tendrils. Though the creature was obviously dead, Branatar was seized by an almost physical need to burn it. He reached for his weapon… and remembered its sacrifice.
‘I shall forge another,’ he vowed.
‘Your armour’s resilience is remarkable,’ the black-robed woman observed. ‘The Secutor’s skeleton was forged from pure adamantium, yet it failed to withstand the blast.’ She paused, calculating. ‘I estimate his structural integrity has been reduced to zero-point-three-nine-nine percent.’
Branatar’s eyes settled on the stylised cog woven into the woman’s robes. It was the symbol of Stygies VIII.
‘Lem,’ he hissed.
Pain wracked him as he rose, but Branatar ignored it. He knew he was broken in countless ways, but none of that mattered now. The sight of the xenos abomination had fuelled his imperative to end this heresy. The magos stood motionless as he raised a clenched fist above her head. She appeared to be unarmed and devoid of augmetics, but Branatar knew Tech Priests were infinitely deceptive. This seemingly frail creature might be deadlier than her giant guardian.
‘Nedezdha Lem,’ he intoned, ‘by decree of the Ordo Xenos–’
‘We who watch, atone alone,’ she said.
Branatar froze, shocked to hear the code-catechism on her lips.
‘I believe the couplet is completed with the refrain “We who atone, watch as one”,’ she continued. ‘An unsophisticated verse, but my rendition is correct, is it not?’
‘Your spies overheard the code,’ Branatar growled.
‘Hold, brother,’ Hauko said behind Branatar. ‘It’s no trick. She’s the one who led us here.’
‘Explain yourself, Black Shield,’ Branatar said coldly. He didn’t lower his fist.
‘Magos Biologis Lem is a defector,’ Hauko said as he stepped into view. ‘This is an extraction mission, brother.’
Lem indicated the alien corpse. ‘My analysis of this xenos strain has uncovered implications that are… perplexing. It was my duty to the Omnissiah to inform the Ordo Xenos of the danger. Unfortunately, Secutor Strochan would not have complied and the skitarii were his.’ The magos sighed – an entirely human sound. ‘He was not a genuine seeker of knowledge.’
‘You lie,’ Branatar whispered.
The magos turned to Hauko, ignoring the fist poised above her head. ‘Has my request been approved? It is imperative that I continue my work on the surviving specimens.’
‘The Ordo has identified a suitable backwater world for your sanctuary,’ Hauko replied. All traces of his cynical swagger were gone now. ‘Construction of the facility has already begun. The inquisitor is sure it will exceed your specifications.’
‘Acceptable,’ Lem said. She indicated Branatar. ‘And this variable?’
Hauko faced the Salamander. ‘The mission is over, brother.’
‘We are not brothers, Black Shield.’
‘But we are both Deathwatch.’
‘Were you working with the Techmarine?’ Branatar pressed.
Hauko’s black eyes were impenetrable. ‘Stand down.’
Branatar hesitated, thinking of the comrades who had been sacrificed for this lie. Did Malvoisin still live? Was Thandios still falling into the infinite abyss of this cursed world?
‘Do your duty,’ Athondar whispered. This time there was no mockery in his voice. ‘It is the path you must walk, brother. The path of true fire.’
‘Forgive me,’ Branatar said, unsure if he spoke aloud. He dropped his hand and stepped away from the magos. ‘Tell me of this new threat.’
‘It’s classified,’ Hauko replied, ‘but I’d wager you’ll find out soon enough, Salamander.’
Branatar kept his oath to Icharos Malvoisin, but when he returned to the surface his friend’s body was gone, along with his homer signal.
‘Icharos?’
He expected no answer from the vox, yet he kept trying as he searched, stalking back and forth across the barren plaza like a lost pilgrim. Perhaps his comrade had awoken dazed or half-mad and wandered into the greater necropolis beyond this dome. Or perhaps a pack of mutants had dragged him away…
‘Athondar!’ the Salamander yelled on impulse, but his shade was also gone.
The extraction operation was beginning, and soon afterwards his own departure must follow, but until then he would keep searching.
‘I will forge a new weapon in your honour, my brothers,’ he vowed to his lost comrades. ‘A weapon of righteous rage and fire.’
Branatar’s imagination was suddenly afire with possibilities. He had learned much from this mission, not least that carrying a secondary weapon wouldn’t go amiss. Something else to bring purifying flame to the xenos.
Bitter and hateful, the hive shadowed the warrior who walked its avenues, tasting his thoughts and testing his soul for a way inside, but it found only fire.
Garran Branatar never found Icharos Malvoisin, nor did they meet again. But many years later he heard stories, and the stories were dark.
And by then the Angels Resplendent were no more.
Deathwatch 10: The Known Unknown
Mark Clapham
‘Retreat forty paces before firing,’ said Jensus Natorian, his eyes closed. Here, on an empty deck of the Deathwatch strike cruiser Lethal Intent, he could taste the constantly recycled, stale air, smell the oil on his armour, hear his servant cranking the equipment into place.
‘Forty paces, my lord?’ asked Heffl, his primary mortal servant.
‘That should suffice,’ said Natorian. ‘My aim will not go so far wide.’
‘I am not concerned for myself, lord,’ said Heffl. ‘The payload here is quite large, lord, I worry that–’
‘You overreach yourself, Heffl,’ said Natorian sharply. ‘It is only by pushing beyond our own capabilities that we can know ourselves. Now, be quiet until I give the order, or I really may come to harm here.’
‘Yes, lord,’ said Heffl, and Natorian heard him shuffle away indignantly. Heffl primarily assisted Natorian in the quieter aspects of his life, carrying books and maintaining equipment. It was unusual for the servant to be present when his lord was testing his combat skills.
But a Space Marine Librarian was far more than a preserver of sacred texts. Natorian dismissed these thoughts from his mind. He had left his gauntlets and helmet behind, but he still wore the rest of his power
armour, wanting to test his own senses, his own fists. The plates of armour shifted as Natorian flexed his enhanced musculature, the armour an extension of his body. He had set his staff, the conventional extension of a Librarian’s will, to one side. This was a test of his own biomancy, without weapons.
He looked inwards, into his own soul, forgot about Heffl, the cruiser, the smells and sounds of it. Instead he let his mind turn to the galaxy, the Imperium, its borders, and what lay beyond.
Threats: the terrible unknowns outside human space, lurking beyond the Emperor’s Light. The creatures that humans knew of, but would always be unknowable to humanity and the Space Marines who walked amongst them: aliens – xenos – threatening the Imperium by their very vile existence. Natorian felt rage build up within him. He let his mind go to an ancient memory, a painful moment hidden within himself. He didn’t let himself visualise that memory, but got close enough to the emotional wound of it, the ache within that fed his hatred. That hatred built inside him like a fire given fresh fuel.
‘Now,’ Natorian said, and opened his eyes. As he did so the crude launching device pointing right at him belched fire, propelling chunks of scrap taken from a recent battlefield in his direction. Half a dozen sizeable fragments of plasteel and ceramite hurtled towards him, solid and sharp enough to smash in his unhelmed skull.
He raised his left hand, letting his rage out in the form of bioelectricity that flowed down his fingers to be spat out in precise bursts of white-hot energy. Three, four, five bolts burst through the air, smashing into bits of debris, melting metal and shattering material, turning the projectiles into dust and smaller chunks that ricocheted harmlessly away.
One last boulder remained, a block of rockcrete larger than the Codicier’s head, and Natorian brought around his right hand, forming a fist. He let the biomantic energy flood through the muscles of his arm, the punch moving with speed and strength incredible even for a Space Marine, every nerve and sinew inflamed with power. It was less than a second since the projectiles had been fired and Natorian was now moving at a speed where time seemed to slow for him.
As his foreknuckle touched the lump of rockcrete it sent a wave of cracks through it, each one infused with biomantic energy, the block shattering in mid-air.
Then time seemed to resume its normal course, Natorian’s energy was spent, and the fragments of rockcrete, now sharp pebbles, maintained their forward motion, less dangerous but still slashing at the skin of his hand and bouncing off his armour.
‘Very impressive,’ boomed Captain Fakuno, approaching across the deck, boots clanging against the floor. Heffl bowed deeply as Fakuno passed him.
Fakuno, leader of Natorian’s kill team, was a Salamander, one pauldron of his black armour still green-edged and bearing the crest of Vulkan’s sons. Like every child of Nocturne, Fakuno’s skin was onyx-black, and his pupils a simmering red. Those burning eyes did not lack humour, and Fakuno’s face was cracked into a half-smile.
‘You should train with us, Natorian,’ said Fakuno. ‘Not spend so much time alone in the bowels of the ship.’
‘I spar with my brothers,’ replied Natorian, binding the wounds on his hand. He tripped over the word ‘brothers’ as he spoke, the word sticking slightly in his throat, but Fakuno didn’t seem to notice.
‘This is not training,’ he added. ‘This is…’
He trailed off. He could speak of research, of the search for knowledge that was a part of every Blood Raven’s life. Of the deep need to know himself and his capabilities. But he knew that Fakuno wouldn’t understand, and would just nod formally in response, that half-smile remaining on his face. Besides, he knew Fakuno would not have sought him out just to chide him for his habits. Give him a breath and he would get to the point.
‘Very well,’ said Fakuno. ‘Just never forget while out here on your own that you are one of us, a part of the team above all else.’ Those red eyes caught Natorian’s for a second, before Fakuno changed tack, as expected.
‘We have a mission,’ said Fakuno, taking a few paces away from Natorian as he spoke. ‘Genestealers have been sighted on the space hulk Endless Despair. There are Space Marines present on the hulk already, but this xenos threat is of special interest to the Deathwatch, and we have already set a course for the hulk.’ Natorian felt a tightening in his gut at the mention of genestealers. Fast and lethal, those exo-skeletoned, clawed monstrosities first encountered on the moons of Ymgarl were also one of the most mysterious species known to mankind, and had plagued the Imperium for a long time. They represented a dual horror to Natorian in their repulsive alien nature and their unknowable purpose.
His feelings must have been visible, as Fakuno slapped him on the shoulder.
‘I see that has lit a fire in you, brother,’ said Fakuno. ‘Come join us when you are finished here, and we will discuss all the information we have on this infested hulk.’
Heffl was straining to lift the training launcher back on to a trolley as Fakuno walked past him, and without acknowledging the servant’s existence Fakuno lifted the load up with one hand and placed it on the trolley. Heffl bowed again, muttering words of gratitude.
‘If our company is not enough for you,’ called Fakuno. ‘Know that these Space Marines we join on the hulk are of your own Chapter, led by Librarian Captain Lanneus.’
Fakuno didn’t wait for a response to this news, and Natorian didn’t give one. He looked down at his bloodied knuckles, and flexed his hand.
Lanneus, he thought. What was Lanneus doing on a space hulk?
Weeks later, Natorian and Fakuno were on the bridge of the Lethal Intent as it approached the space hulk Endless Despair. The hulk filled the pict screen, and even through a fog of incense Natorian could make out where different ships and other space-borne structures had become fused together to make the hulk.
‘Shipmaster, where are we to dock?’ asked Captain Fakuno.
‘Here, my lord,’ said the mortal shipmaster in his control throne, and a crude white glyph appeared on the pict screen.
As the Intent moved closer to the hulk, it became clear that a cruiser was already docked with the section of the hulk they were approaching.
‘This is why I wanted you here, Natorian,’ said Fakuno. ‘Do you recognise that vessel?’
‘The Burden of Proof,’ replied Natorian. ‘A Blood Ravens strike cruiser, one of the Chapter’s finest.’
‘Then we are at least in the right place,’ said Fakuno. There had been no further communication from the Blood Ravens since the initial call for aid. ‘Shipmaster, hail the Burden.’
The order was relayed through the ranks, and the Intent attempted to contact the other cruiser. Then they attempted again. Tense minutes passed, but there was no response.
‘Natorian?’ asked Fakuno. ‘What say you?’
‘It could be a vox failure,’ said Natorian. ‘It would explain the lack of contact these last weeks. No Chapter is immune from such problems.’
‘…or the signal might be disrupted,’ added Fakuno, eyes narrowed in thought. ‘These hulks are filthy with radiation and energies that interfere with communications.’
Neither stated the obvious possibility – that the genestealers had overrun the Blood Ravens, and everyone on the hulk and the Burden was dead already.
‘Find us a place to dock, Shipmaster,’ said Fakuno. ‘Natorian, tell the others to prepare themselves. We will enter the hulk ready for battle.’
A short while later Fakuno, Natorian and the rest of their kill team were standing in an ancient airlock as it cycled the atmosphere before admitting them to the relic of a spacecraft that was their access point to space hulk Endless Despair. Fully armoured, combat-ready, they stood in the huge airlock as machinery behind the walls hissed and ground.
‘Inefficient,’ said Stannos, flexing the fingers of his bionic hand impatiently. An Iron Hand, he judged all technology by his own harsh standards.
‘No one comes to a space hulk to admire the facilities,’ said Godrew. B
eneath his armour he was the pallid counterpoint to Fakuno, his skin alabaster-white and his eyes jet-black. Natorian knew that beneath Godrew’s helmet, those eyes were giving Stannos a withering stare. The Iron Hand and the Raven Guard clashed verbally all the time, but in battle they fought like a single entity, Stannos laying down heavy covering fire while Godrew finished off enemies with precise shots.
‘Why would anyone come to a space hulk at all?’ said Karlan, the last of their number and a Blood Angel. His exasperation seemed always on the verge of tipping into anger, but Natorian knew that the truly dangerous rage within Karlan was buried deep, and rarely came to the surface.
Karlan’s question had been clearly intended as rhetorical, part of the constant letting out of steam that allowed the Blood Angel to keep lethally calm in battle, but Natorian considered it worth answering anyway.
‘Knowledge,’ he said. ‘If Lanneus commands here, it is knowledge he seeks. Even by the inquisitive standards of my Chapter, his thirst for knowledge is unquenchable.’
‘You know this Lanneus well, Natorian?’ asked Godrew. Natorian saw that Godrew and the others were all waiting expectantly for an answer. Natorian realised that, unconsciously, he had neglected to mention that he knew Lanneus through any of the discussions they had had about this mission.
It had not been secrecy or a conscious omission. Natorian had just presumed that these Space Marines from great lineages, all from Chapters of the First Founding, would not be interested in the internal concerns of the Blood Ravens, an obscure Chapter whose origins were long lost.
‘He is… was… my mentor,’ said Natorian. ‘He trained me to become a Librarian, taught me the arts of combat, and how to direct my power and my anger. Everything I am, I owe to Lanneus.’
‘Then to this Lanneus we owe gratitude and respect,’ said Fakuno, looking up from adjusting his ornate combi-bolter, a customised hybrid weapon with an attached flamethrower. There was a ripple of assent through the others, a nodding of helmed heads. Natorian did not know how to respond to this, but was saved from awkwardness by the airlock’s inner doors finally beginning to roll open. The kill team dropped into position, weapons raised, ready to open fire and withdraw to cover if genestealers swarmed into the airlock. Natorian felt the tension between his comrades, their intense focus. His biomantic powers rose within him in anticipation, causing the hairs on his arms to rise beneath his armour, his skin prickling.
