Red Fury

by James Swallow

  Thus, the libraria. Planets given over to file stores as big as cities, duplicating and protecting information so that the loss of any one of them would not mean the destruction of humanity’s knowledge base. Every fact recovered from the past, and every piece of data generated since, had a place here. Nothing was to be lost again.

  But the reality did not marry with the vision. In the 41st millennium, true information retained the same power it had in earlier ages, and those who had it hoarded it like precious gems. Instead of the libraria becoming the home of all learning, they had turned into great dusty canyons of worthless data, collected by a bureaucracy that collated everything as if it were of the greatest import, no matter how trivial, how pointless. LXD-9768’s stacks could not tell a man what words the Emperor said upon his assent to the Golden Throne; but it could give chapter and verse about the migratory patterns of extinct breeds of rodents in the underlevels of hive cities, from worlds that had not existed for centuries.

  The libraria cranked on, gathering and assembling information as a cetacean might strain ocean waters for krill through its baleen. And sometimes, by pure chance, they took in data that actually had value.

  It had taken Fenn six days to locate the correct annexe, in endless rounds of quibbling and arguments with the quillans and savants who stood as gatekeepers to the great oceans of data locked up in the libraria’s stores. Finally, the correct permissions had been provided, on a fanfold of greasy cardboard stamped with a dozen signets and consent indents. The books were close by, in a sub-basement.

  While Fenn worked, Lord Caecus had remained aboard their Aquila shuttle, meditating in the spartan cargo bay. He had not taken food nor sleep since they departed Baal, he had said little to the serf during the voyage aboard the transport ship and the shuttle flight to the surface of LXD-9768.

  It was an understatement to say his master was troubled. Ever since he had returned to the Vitalis Citadel from his meeting with Lord Dante, he had been withdrawn. Caecus has taken such high hopes with him, fully believing that the Chapter Master would accept his option for rebuilding their forces. He, and Fenn with him, had not expected such a negative response. Perhaps they had been too close to the idea, too enamoured of the work to consider that others might find it objectionable.

  Fenn waited for Caecus to order the laboratorium closed, the work halted. When the Apothecae Majoris did none of those things, the serf did not question it. He understood his lordship’s thinking; Dante’s criticism could be overturned, if the right combination of results could be created. It was Fenn’s duty to aid his master in bringing that to pass; and so they were here, to follow upon a thin lead. Certain tomes had been tracked to this place. Allegedly copied by the monks of Ionai from records laid down by Brother Monedus, a senior Raven Guard apothecarion, the papers were said to carry much knowledge of the primarch Corax’s experiments in accelerated zygote harvesting techniques. The tomes had eventually come to LXD-9768, rescued from the obliteration of a valetudinarium station somewhere in the Ultima Segmentum.

  Caecus showed the first signs of interest in weeks; but when they reached the annexe, that swiftly turned to grim annoyance. The quillan at the bookgate seemed startled to see them; you are not the first visitors this day, said the scribe-priest. Such arrivals, it appeared, were unusual.

  Nyniq was there, reading the Monedus papers with a repellor-field tool that let her turn the pages without actually touching them.

  At first Fenn thought it was some cruel twist of fate, that this magos had arrived at the same prize his master sought on the same day; he learned that this was not true. Nyniq weathered veiled threats from Lord Caecus and by turns revealed she was here because she had learned of the Apothecae’s search for tracts on the subject of cloning. It was, she explained, a line of research that she too was following. We could make such leaps if we pooled our works, she offered.

  Fenn hated her on sight, of course. As arrogant as she was beautiful, twisting her words to dance upon the edge of his master’s fury, piquing Caceus’ interest with her considerable knowledge and then backing away, as another woman might tease a normal man with the promise of physical congress. And she was shrewd with it. Nyniq made airy suggestions that she might simply bring news of this meeting to Lord Dante and approach the Blood Angels directly, doubtless knowing all along of Caecus’ desire for secrecy. The Apothecae later admitted to Fenn that he had even considered ending the troublesome woman’s life to be done with her. But what consequences could such a deed have?

  The serf watched her win the Blood Angel’s trust little by little, feathering his curiosity, enticing him. Fenn knew the moment had come when Nyniq presented a complex skein of biologian formulae to his master, a paper of such intricacies which the Astartes could only begin to encompass in his thoughts.

  The woman understood it all, though. The Monedus papers were missing pieces of a puzzle to her, and she was eager to bring them together with the works under Caecus’ dominion.

  Perhaps, if the pressures of time and the censure of Lord Dante had not been upon him, Caecus might have rejected Nyniq on the spot, taken what he needed and left her broken upon the storehouse’s stone floor; but in truth, the Apothecae Majoris concealed a sullen desperation. Over Fenn’s ignored words, he accepted her offer of assistance, in exchange for some degree of the fruits of this research.

  We will show the Emperor such majesty, she said, in his footsteps we will walk, and make demi-gods from the crude clay of mortal men.

  “What bargains have we made?” Fenn said the words under his breath, his voice carrying no further than his lips. He looked at his own reflection on the glass cabinets ranged across the walls of the laboratorium.

  It was a mistake. Just to form that statement in his mind, to go against his lord and master within the privacy of his own thoughts, even that tested the serfs reason. He had lived his life in service to Brother Caecus and his great works, to the Blood Angels and Sanguinius. But Nyniq’s recruitment had been the setting in of the rot, and now this man, this Haran Serpens? His master’s rush to be proven right was pushing him to make choices that were rash. Still, Fenn could not openly speak the doubts that crowded in upon him. He had already talked of his dislike of the woman and that had brought him nothing. His concerns about the two servants of the magos biologis were real and certain, and it was his duty to act on them.

  But how? To decry them both based on nothing but a personal dislike was foolish. There was no evidence that Nyniq had ever done anything less than what she promised, to assist the work and integrate the research of Monedus.

  He would need something firm. Something certain, evidence that the magos were manipulating Caecus’ work to their own ends.

  Fenn studied Serpens as he spoke with his master. Suspicion without proof is nothing, he told himself. I will make it my task to learn more about this tech-lord. I will find out what he and that wench really want, and then expose them both.

  “Fenn,” snapped Caecus. “Come here. Bring the genetor’s report on the most recent iterations.”

  The serf bowed low, hiding a narrowed gaze.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The party moved along the corridors of the high arcade, beneath the slanted arches of the red stone ceiling. The glow of photonic candles gave the corridor a warm, aged feel, and shadows jumped in the passageways that radiated off at every intersection.

  Rafen glanced over his shoulder. “This is one of the earliest structures of the fortress-monastery,” he explained to the men who walked behind him. “These walls were laid down under the eye of the Great Angel himself.”

  “Impressive,” said Brother-Captain Gorn, in a tone of voice that suggested he thought the sight far from it.

  At Rafen’s side, young Kayne bristled and his hands made fists in his wide sleeves. The two Blood Angels were in stark contrast, their duty robes of rust-coloured cloth against the deep burgundy worn by Gorn and his party. As with their wargear, the Flesh Tearer contingent had little in the way
of adornment about their person. Gorn, the veteran sergeant Noxx and the honour guard Roan were dressed in identical habits with the simple saw-blade sigil upon their shoulders. Their Chapter Master had declined the invitation to join them, citing his desire to prepare for the forthcoming conclave.

  Rafen gave Kayne a hard look, but the youth didn’t acknowledge it. He was beginning to regret bringing the younger Astartes along with him. Kayne was a good Space Marine, that was never in doubt, but he was unseasoned and quick to anger. Rafen knew that the Flesh Tearers saw that as well as he did. This duty that Mephiston had assigned him and his men, to serve as adjutants to their cousins from Cretacia, was not a task fit for a warrior; but then to give it to a Chapter serf would have been taken as a grave insult.

  Gorn gestured down the long corridor. “Are we to walk the length of this, then?” He glanced around. “When Brother Corbulo suggested we be shown some of the treasures of the monastery, I had expected to see more than just… stonework.”

  “There’s much here to be lauded, sir,” Kayne broke in, without waiting for Rafen’s permission to speak. “Our Chapter’s riches are in the stone as well as the gold.”

  “Riches,” echoed Noxx, seizing on the word. “How blessed the Blood Angels are to have such boons.” There was a forced bitterness in the sergeant’s voice and Rafen frowned, unsure of where Noxx was taking the conversation.

  Abruptly, Gorn shot out a hand and pointed into a branching corridor, where the lights were dimmer. “There. What is down there?”

  “One of the galleries.”

  “A shooting gallery?” questioned Roan. “A bolter range, up here? I hear no gunfire.”

  “It is an art gallery, Brother,” Rafen corrected.

  Noxx made a derisive noise. “Art?” He stepped away and walked swiftly into the corridor, the dim candles there growing brighter as they sensed his presence.

  Rafen thought to call him back, but already the other Flesh Tearers were following him, peering owlishly at the works upon the walls and in the oval alcoves.

  There was a thin sneer on Noxx’s face. “What are these?” He gestured at the mix of displays that crowded the walls. There were paintings in various media, sculptures of stone and carved woods, tapestries and fine pieces of worked metal. Many were devotional items fashioned to show the Emperor or Sanguinius in reverent aspect, others abstract things made for the sheer pleasure of it, or representative works depicting landscapes from a dozen worlds. “Are they spoils from the planets your Chapter has brought into submission?”

  “These are the works of our battle-brothers,” said Kayne. “Each one was crafted by the hand of a Blood Angel.”

  Noxx chuckled. “You… paint?” The very idea amused him. “You sketch and you chisel at bits of stone?”

  “Is that not work for remembrancers?” offered Gorn.

  “It is work for men of spirit. The Great Sanguinius granted the Blood Angels many things,” Rafen said tightly. “Among them was a sense of the aesthetic. These works are the expression of that gift.”

  Noxx focussed on Kayne; the young Space Marine’s jaw was set hard. “Which of these pretty things is yours, then? Show me, artist.”

  “With respect, brother-sergeant,” Kayne was careful to meter his speech. “I would ask you not to mock.”

  “You would, eh?” Noxx shared his cold smile with Gorn. “But I wonder if I can accommodate you, in the face of all this?” The sergeant gestured around. “Is this what the Blood Angels do when they should be engaging the enemies of mankind or kneeling in prayer to the Golden Throne? They scribble and they sew?” He snatched up a piece of tapestry, upon which a fine golden web of threads depicted an image of Sanguinius.

  “My brethren have no time for such things. We are too busy fighting and dying!”

  “Everything here is a mark of devotion to the ideals of the Great Angel.” Kayne matched the Flesh Tearer’s dead-eyed gaze and anger entered his tone. “How can an Astartes fight to preserve all that is good and beautiful in the universe, if he has no appreciation of beauty? To be blind to these things is to be blind to the glory the Emperor brings us.”

  “This boy lectures me on how to do battle, now?” Noxx growled, addressing his kinsmen. “Should I dare to correct him upon his needlework?” He shook the cloth in his fist.

  Rafen saw the incident unfolding and moved to step forward. Noxx was once again goading a Blood Angel, this time seeking the weaker link of Kayne’s ill-concealed anger. Clearly, the warrior had come to understand he needed to look elsewhere to get a rise. “Brother-sergeant,” he began, ready to defuse the building tension, but Gorn stepped in his path and stopped him. The Blood Angel halted, taking a breath.

  “A moment, Rafen.” The Flesh Tearer captain retained a disinterested air, but there was a steel in his eyes that made his words an order. “Let the men talk.”

  He hesitated. Gorn was not his commander, but he was still a ranking Astartes. To defy him… The thought caught hard in Rafen’s chest.

  “War is not all there is to life.” Kayne was speaking, his face colouring with resentment. “If you cannot appreciate the majesty of a sunrise, or the power of a great hymnal, then I feel sorry for you.”

  Rafen chest tightened. Wrong. The wrong words to say. And as he knew would happen, Noxx growled out a reply.

  “Do you? How high-handed, how typical of a Blood Angel whelp to scold his betters!”

  “That’s enough—” Rafen snapped, but neither cared to hear him.

  “Don’t provoke the boy anymore, sergeant,” said Gorn mildly. “He may paint an unflattering portrait of you.”

  Noxx turned away, shaking his head. “No wonder your Chapter is such a shambles if you are the best of their breed. Are you all peacocks and cloth-cutters?”

  Rafen saw the flash of fury in Kayne’s eyes and he knew he would not be able to stop what was coming next.

  In a blur, the youth’s combat blade swept out from its scabbard and came to a halt a hair’s breadth from Noxx’s throat. “I do not cut you,” Kayne snarled, “but I would happily cut your arrogance from you, sir!”

  Impulsive fool! Rafen’s teeth set in a snarl. The youth had played right into the other man’s hands, allowing his anger to bring him to draw the weapon. “Kayne!” He called out, Gorn’s censure be damned. “You forget yourself! Sheath your blade!”

  A moment of doubt was all it took. Kayne wavered and Noxx flicked his head forward, deliberately catching his cheek on the knife edge.

  “The boy cut me,” said the Flesh Tearer.

  “Unfortunate,” agreed Gorn, turning away. “That will make an issue of it. Shed blood.”

  Rafen knew it would be useless to argue the point that Noxx had cut himself. It would be his word against that of a ranking warrior. He pushed past the Flesh Tearer captain and came to his warrior’s side. Kayne’s face was ashen, as too late he realised that he had been played, made a fool for the sport of the other Astartes.

  “I’ll want restitution,” Noxx said darkly. “In the fighting pit.”

  Rafen glared at the veteran sergeant. “You pushed him to this. Why?”

  Noxx’s voice fell to a whisper. “To see what you’re made of.”

  The Blood Angel hesitated, then opened his hand to Brother Kayne. “Give me your knife, lad. And show me your fingers.”

  The youth did as he was ordered. Without pause, Rafen took Kayne’s fingers in his grip and folded them back the wrong way, snapping all four joints at once.

  Kayne barked out a cry of pain. “What…”

  Rafen silenced him with a look. “Go to the Apothecary. Have those re-set. They’ll heal.” He turned about and glared at Noxx, Kayne’s knife still in his hand. “The boy’s fighting grip is useless. He can’t meet you in the pit. It would be unfair.”

  “I could break the brother-sergeant’s fingers,” offered Gorn, a tic of amusement at his lips. “Would that make it even?”

  “No,” replied Rafen. Mephiston’s words, the psyker’s or
ders not to rise to the Flesh Tearers’ bait, echoed in his thoughts. I will ask his forgiveness later; but this must be done now. The sergeant’s lips thinned. “Kayne is a part of my squad, and my responsibility.” His eyes never left Noxx. “I will take his place.”

  From the viewing balcony, the stone hemisphere of the fighting pit was an unadorned bowl of light-coloured bricks set into the floor. Black lines bisected the inverted space like the rings of latitude and longitude upon a planetary globe. A servitor replaced the polished steel grate over the blood drain in the centre, and, with care, it used long and spindly arms to pick its way back up toward the edge.

  The lower balconies were filling, knots of men from every Chapter gathering here and there. The call to commencement was almost upon them. Dante watched, his eyes ranging over his kinsmen and cousins, taking the measure of the room.

  “I knew something like this would happen.” Dante didn’t need to look over his shoulder at Corbulo, where the Apothecary stood, arms folded and face set. He didn’t need to look at him to know the expression of grim dismay the grail bearer wore. He could hear it in his words. Corbulo blew out a breath. “Are the Sons of Sanguinius incapable of meeting across a table without drawing each other into a pointless dispute?”

  “A matter of honour is never a pointless dispute,” noted Dante. “Such things cannot go without address.” He turned and found Corbulo looking at him, his manner shifting to something more quizzical.

  “You don’t seem concerned by this.” The Apothecary paused, and Dante let him draw his own conclusions. “You knew this would come to pass. A disagreement, something that would lead to Astartes meeting Astartes in the pit…” He gestured out at the arena.

  “I did,” admitted the Chapter Master. “As you said, there is an inevitability about such things.” He adjusted the cuff of his robes. “We are all Sons of Sanguinius, aye. But we are a fractious family. Friction is only to be expected.”