Red Fury

by James Swallow

  Rafen felt ice in the pit of his gut. He wanted to speak, to offer up some sort of explanation or apology, but he found no words. Insurrection. The word tumbled about within his thoughts, hard-edged and leaden.

  It was a damnation, a bladed curse, and Rafen felt shame to think he had been there to watch it unfurl. Not since the grim times of the Horus Heresy had brother turned against brother, and yet in recent months the Blood Angels had been pushed to the very brink of a civil war within their Chapter. It began on the cemetery world of Cybele, when the Blood Angels battle-barge Bellus had arrived to rescue Rafen and his company from an attack by the Traitor Marines of the Word Bearers Legion. Bellus had brought salvation and among the crew, Rafen’s younger sibling Arkio; but the reunion hid a darker purpose. An inquisitor, the deceiver Ramius Stele, had engineered the whole matter in league with a daemon of the warp. He conceived a complex plan to split the Blood Angels asunder, and Rafen’s sibling was his cat’s-paw.

  Even to think of it now, he shuddered at the horrible daring of the scheme. Stele twisted Arkio into a mirror’s twin of the primarch Sanguinius and pressed the Astartes around him to believe the boy was the Great Angel’s reincarnation; but all of it was a gambit to break the Chapter in two, to lead them down the bloody path towards Chaos and the Ruinous Powers that Stele called master.

  Rafen found himself looking down at his hands. The hands that had briefly wielded the mighty archeotech weapon known as the Spear of Telesto, the hands that had taken the life of his fallen sibling in order to save Arkio’s soul.

  So much blood upon them, he told himself. Yet none of it visible to the eye. Rafen took a shuddering breath, fighting down the moment of powerful recall.

  Arkio was dead, his body become ash upon the pyre Rafen built for his blood kin. The Spear that Stele had hoped to claim for himself was safe within the reclusia of the fortress-monastery, deep beneath the chamber where he now stood. And many, many brothers lay fallen in the fury that had spread from the schism Stele created. Righteous men, fine warriors. Rafen’s mentor Koris, taken too soon by the madness of the Black Rage. Delos and Lucion, Sachiel and Alactus…

  Alactus; an Astartes who had fought alongside Rafen for decades, who died at his hands when they had been forced into conflict. His bloodless hands.

  So many dead. The cold irony of it was pitiable, that in ten thousand years, the greatest destruction wrought upon the Blood Angels could come not from an enemy, but from the battle they fought amongst themselves.

  Doubt, recrimination and dark, potent regret threatened to well up and fill him, but Rafen forced himself to shake it off, pushing the black emotions away, returning to the moment.

  Dante was speaking. “What each of you knows is that our Chapter was wounded by the machinations of Ramius Stele and his daemonic masters. But what we have not disclosed to you is how deep that wound goes.”

  “Lord,” said Argastes, “I beg you, speak plainly.”

  The Chapter Master frowned, and for a moment he seemed to show his great and venerable age in a single breath. “My brothers, I have grave concerns about the future of our Chapter. The decimation stirred by Stele’s perfidy and the false angel Arkio claimed the lives of many of our kinsmen.”

  “How many?” demanded Lothan.

  “Too many,” Corbulo grated. “Dead, or lost to the Rage. Far too many.”

  “These events have depleted our numbers beyond anything we have previously faced.” Dante stepped off the stage and came toward Lothan. “Did you not sense it, brother-captain? On your return from campaign, on your arrival this day?” He gestured at the walls. “The empty corridors. The silent arena.”

  “I… I did,” Lothan admitted, “but I did not suspect…”

  “To maintain the illusion of normality, we have sent senior battle-brothers to wargrounds all across the galaxy,” explained Mephiston. “The Imperium at large will see nothing unusual. For the moment, we may show the outside world a face that seems unchanged. But that mask will decay in time.”

  “Unless a solution can be found, the IX Legion Astartes may find itself unable to recover. We may be forced to recluse ourselves. We will not be equal to the tasks the Emperor experts of us.” The Chapter Master’s pronouncement was grim. “New inductions of aspirants have been taken from Baal Secundus and Baal Primus, earlier than the tithe suggests, but it will not be enough.”

  “And numbers alone are not the greatest threat,” added Mephiston. “We have enemies both within the Imperium and without. Should they learn we are…” He paused, framing his thoughts. “Diminished… they may be emboldened to move against us and take advantage of any vulnerability.”

  “We are spread thin,” said Dante. “And the fiction I have set in place will, as Brother Mephiston says, only last so long.”

  Chaplain Argastes nodded. “Aye. Agents of the Ordo Hereticus have already made overtures to Baal, asking questions about the death of that bastard Stele.”

  “If they are asking overtly, we may be certain they are doing much more in clandestine realms,” noted Caecus, speaking for the first time. His hairless head was dull in the lamplight.

  “Measures must be taken, and swiftly,” said Corbulo. “May Sanguinius give us insight.”

  Caecus drew himself up and licked his lips. “If it pleases the High Priest, I believe he may have done so already.”

  Dante turned to study the Apothecary. “Speak,” he ordered. “You have known the dimensions of this concern for some time, brother.”

  He nodded. “I have, lord. And in my works and research, I have uncovered a thread of hope, if you will indulge me.”

  Rafen studied the Apothecary. Caecus was one of many of the sanguinary priests of the Blood Angels whose mission was less of the martial and more toward the ephemeral. Since the rise of the gene-curse in the Sons of Sanguinius, there had always been priests whose sole purpose had been to study the complex skeins of genetic material that made the Astartes who they were. Men whose battle was not against the enemies of the Emperor, but against the dormant bane of the Red Thirst and the Black Rage. Caecus worked at the Vitalis Citadel, a medicae complex hundreds of kilometres away, in the stark and icebound wilderness of Baal’s polar region. Isolated there with a staff of brethren and serfs, the priest was over two hundred years into his service toward finding a cure.

  “I have a solution to this circumstance, a radical one. I admit, it may not sit well with many of you. But I could not in good conscience let it go unremarked. We are in an extreme circumstance, are we not? And that calls for an extreme solution.”

  “Explain, then,” said Corbulo, with clear and steady doubt upon his expression.

  “There is a method, a technology that will allow us to recoup the losses to our Chapter in less than a solar year, if enough effort can be applied to it.” The Apothecary nodded to himself. “My kinsmen, consider for a moment a point in history, when a similar fate to that which now faces the Blood Angels threatened another of the Legion Astartes. Ten millennia ago, after Horus’ butchery on Istvaan V obliterated all but a small handful of the XIX Legion.”

  “The Raven Guard,” Rafen found his voice. “The Sons of Corax.”

  “Aye. The very same. After the treachery of the Arch-traitor, the Emperor’s light forsake him, the primarch Corax needed to swiftly rebuild his legion. I believe that the manner in which he did it can be opened to us.”

  “Caecus,” said Argastes, the Chaplain’s expression growing cold. “I have heard the stories of the Raven Guard. I warn you to consider what you are about to utter in this esteemed company.”

  The Apothecae Majoris seemed unconcerned by his battle-brother’s caution. “I have considered, kinsmen. I have considered it in great depth.”

  “I would hear more,” offered Lothan, “if it pleases the Master?”

  Dante nodded. “Continue, then.”

  Caecus nodded. “The Sons of Corax guard their secrets well, brothers, but some of their history has become known to me through my resea
rches. It is said that the Lord of the Ravenspire went to books of ancient knowledge from the Age of Strife, intent on gleaning wisdom from the Emperor’s own hand on the matter of the creation of Space Marines.”

  Rafen listened intently. Every Astartes knew of the legacy they shared, from the very first of their kind created by the Emperor’s gene-smiths to forge the army that united Terra and led it out of Old Night. Those warriors were the precursors to the Astartes of the Great Crusade and every generation that had followed.

  “Corax saw a way to repopulate his forces in these tomes,” Caecus went on. “Not through the process of induction, training and elevation that we practise in these times, but through a mastery of genetic duplication.”

  “You speak of the old art of replicae,” said Corbulo. “The science that man called cloning.”

  “I do, priest, I do indeed.”

  A sense of dismay shifted through the room, and Rafen’s mouth went dry. The ways of the magos biologis were beyond him, but even he knew that the creation of a life from a synthetic mass of genetic matter seemed… somehow improper. It was said by some that beings spawned in such manner could not be considered human at all, that they were born without souls.

  “I believe these methods could be called upon to forge new additions to our ranks, my lord.” Caecus addressed Dante directly, a thread of passion building beneath his words. “Blood Angels, cut from the whole cloth of our legion, brought to maturity in a cycle of months instead of years.” He smiled slightly. “A pure expression of the Adeptus Astartes Sanguinia.”

  “Pure?” Chaplain Argastes echoed the word with grim severity. “And tell us, brother, what of the rest of Corax’s story? What of the dark tales spoken of in hushed whispers by the Sons of Russ?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Lothan.

  “Corax did indeed use the way of replicae to bring his legion back from the brink of dissolution,” said Argastes, “but the road to it was not a smooth one. The Space Wolves speak of… of creatures that fought amid the Raven Guard’s numbers. Things more beast than man. Throwbacks. Monstrous aberrations spawned in error by the very process you suggest we now employ.”

  “Mutants?” One of Lothan’s subordinates said the word with barely disguised repugnance, earning him a hard look from his commander.

  Caecus coloured slightly. “This is true. But that was ten millennia ago. The Imperium’s grasp upon such sciences is stronger, now. And I would warrant that no Chapter beneath the Emperor’s eternal gaze knows the nature of its own blood better than ours, Argastes! Corax was too hasty. He was unprepared. We are not. We can learn from the mistakes of the Raven Guard!” He glanced back at Dante.

  “Your plan…” The Chapter Master dwelled on his thoughts for a moment. “You did not exaggerate when you said it was radical, kinsman. To call it bold is an understatement.”

  Rafen saw the Apothecary’s hope soar. “Then… You will grant me your approval, lord?”

  “I will not.” Dante shook his head. “I too know these stories of which Brother Argastes speaks. If mighty Corax, a primarch, a sibling of our liege-lord and a son of the Emperor, could not undertake this arcane art without error, then I ask you this, Caecus. What makes you think that you can succeed where he failed?”

  The Chapter Master’s steady, careful words made the Apothecary hesitate. “I only wish to make the attempt. For our Chapter’s sake.”

  “I do not doubt your dedication to the Blood Angels and your great work, kinsman. Never think that. But this plan, the risk of it… I am not sure I can give my blessing to such an undertaking.”

  Caecus glanced around the room, looking for support, but he did not find it.

  Mephiston brought the matter to a close with a single question. “Apothecary,” he began, “you would not have brought this to us unless you had already made some attempt to echo Corax’s work. What have you accomplished?”

  With the searching eyes of the Lord of Death upon him, Caecus could hide nothing from the assembled Blood Angels. “I have had only limited success to date.” The admission weighed down upon him.

  “If not this route, then what others are open to us?” said Lothan. “We have spoken already of the increase in tithes, and I will assume that many of the men in our Scout company may be advanced to the status of full battle-brother into the bargain?”

  “Correct,” noted Corbulo, “but still it will not be enough.”

  Dante nodded once more. “It will not. And to that end, I have made a decision. The issue we face at this moment cannot find its answers within the walls of this fortress,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling, “indeed, not even within the boundaries of the worlds that orbit our red sun. We must go further, across the galaxy if need be, to find the solution elsewhere.”

  Argastes frowned. “Are you suggesting that we take secondary tithes from other planets, lord?”

  “No, my friend.” The Chapter Master shook his head. “I believe there is only one way in which we can find a healing to the wounds of the Arkio Insurrection. We will call together all our kindred and seek the answer among the many Sons of Sanguinius.”

  “A conclave,” breathed Rafen. “A gathering of the entire successor Chapters of the Blood Angels.”

  “Aye,” Dante shot him a look of agreement. “I will call my cousins to this place and in unity, find a path.”

  Caecus’ lips thinned. “Unity has never been at the forefront of the character of our successors, lord. We are not the Ultramarines. There are those who will simply ignore such a summons. Others lost to distance that we may never reach in time.”

  Lothan rubbed his chin, thinking. “We’ll gather all that we can.”

  “Then it is so ordered,” said Mephiston, rising to his feet. “First Captain? You will liaise with the shipmasters at the orbit dock and the astropaths. Have a deployment plan prepared for the Chapter Master by morning.” He bowed to Dante. “Lord, with your permission, I will choose the cadres of men to serve as messengers for your summons.”

  “Do so,” came the reply.

  In short order, the meeting broke apart and the men left in groups, many of them quiet and introspective, musing on the great weight of what had been revealed. Rafen, alone as he was and of lower rank than all of them, stood back and allowed his seniors to leave first, out of respect.

  Caecus caught his eye, as the Apothecae Majoris crossed the chamber, deep in his thoughts. He hid it well, but Rafen could see the stiffness in his gait, the narrowing of his eyes. Caecus was silently fuming at the Chapter Master’s censure; to be put in one’s place by Dante, no matter that it was with consideration and not from off-hand whim, clearly did not sit well with Caecus. Rafen imagined how he might have felt in the same place; but then he, like Caecus, was a Space Marine, a Blood Angel. Dante was their Lord Commander, and his word was second only to the edicts of the Emperor himself. If it was spoken by Dante, then it was to be done. There was no other condition. Caecus’ pride was wounded, but he understood. The veteran Apothecary would not have lived this long or been granted the responsibility he had if he did not accept that.

  “Rafen,” Mephiston said his name, catching his attention immediately. From the foot of the black stone stage, the Librarian beckoned him with a long finger. He approached, bowing slightly. Behind Mephiston, Dante was in quiet conversation with Corbulo.

  “Sir,” Rafen began. “If you will forgive me, but I have a question.”

  “Why was I summoned to this meeting?” He smiled thinly. “I need not exercise my abilities to see that concern written across your face, brother-sergeant. You are here because I believed it necessary. Leave it at that, eh?”

  “As you wish.” Rafen decided not to press the issue.

  “In point of fact, I have already decided to deploy you and your tactical squad as one of the messenger cadres we will send to our cousin Chapters.”

  “May I ask which?”

  Behind him, Lord Dante broke off from his conversation as Corbulo walked away. “Tha
t choice is mine to make,” he said, stepping down to Rafen’s level.

  The Blood Angel bowed again. “Lord, I am at your service. Task me.”

  “There is a world called Eritaen, in the Tiber Marches. It has fallen from the light of the Emperor and a punishment in keeping with that crime has been delivered to its people. Our cousins are the hand that wields that punishment.” Dante eyed him. “Tell me, Brother Rafen. What do you know of the Flesh Tearers?”

  He smothered his immediate reaction of dismay within a heartbeat; Rafen had no doubt that Dante saw it, but the Chapter Master said nothing. He picked his words with care. “They are of the Second Founding, a small Chapter of only four battle companies. The Tearers have a reputation for ferocity. They are… Proud and aggressive, my lord. As much an embodiment of the Great Angel’s darker nature as we are of his nobility and bearing.”

  To his surprise, the Lord Commander’s face split in wry smile. “A very politic answer, sergeant. Mephiston was correct when he suggested you for this mission.”

  Rafen nodded. “I will do my best to be worthy of his faith.”

  Dante’s smile vanished. “You’ll have to. Chapter Master Seth and his men will not brook an intrusion from one of us, know that. Your welcome will be icy at the very best. Mephiston suggested I give you this task because you will rise to the occasion, because of your potential. But I give it to you because of who you are. Who you were.”

  Rafen tasted ashes in his mouth. “The blood-brother of Arkio.”

  A nod. “Just so.” Dante considered him for a moment. “Seth will be the most difficult of my cousins to persuade. More than any of our other successors, the Flesh Tearers have always walked their own path. They resent anything that seems like the hand of control upon their necks. He will deny my summons. There is no question he will deny it.”

  “Then, my lord, how should I convince him to return with me?”

  Dante turned away. “Tell him the truth, Rafen. Every bloody moment.” The Lord of the Blood Angels walked away, leaving the Astartes and the psyker alone.