Red Fury

by James Swallow

  Fenn watched the figure move slowly toward the altar. With the biolumes at such low levels, it was possible that he would never see the cowering serf. He bent lower, his rational mind warring with the animal need to run. He just had to wait, just a little more. Let him get to the altar, and then he won’t be able to catch me before I reach the chapel doors.

  “Not talking? That’s a pity.” There was a sigh. “You are a poor sample, Fenn. An intelligent man, oh yes, but a poor sample. It is no wonder that the Blood Angels rejected you as too weak to embrace the power of an Adeptus Astartes. You lack something.” The footsteps stopped.

  The sudden silence was too much to bear. With a frantic burst of motion, Fenn exploded from his hiding place and hurtled across the darkened chapel as fast as he could go. He pounded towards the doors, dimly alarmed by the fact that the ersatz tech-lord had not even moved to follow him.

  Too late, Fenn realised something was amiss. The thought was still forming in his mind as he collided with a tall, slab-sided shape hidden in the shadows and crashed back on to his haunches, into a heap on the floor. The box-like servitor loomed out of the darkness on its iron claws, stalking toward him.

  “Your associate among the communicant,” came the voice. The warmth, the silk of Haran Serpens faded away, replaced by something calculating and impossibly old. “Such a terrible accident. A freak gust of wind. He fell from the top of the citadel.”

  Fenn was shaking, the fear engulfing him in suffocating waves. “Who?” He pushed the sounds from his mouth. “Why?”

  “You will never know, little man.”

  Before him, the sides of the box began to slide open, like some complex puzzle. Fenn saw movement inside, rods and pincers shifting and turning.

  “It’s better this way,” said the impostor, all trace of the false voice gone now. “You would only weep when you learned of how I have tampered with your great work. Better you don’t live to see it.”

  The serf held up a hand in silent entreaty. Inside the open box, a huge arachnid shape of brass legs and glugging pipes coiled and then leapt toward him, metal talons whipping through the air.

  Rafen nodded to Ajir as he approached the doors to the Grand Annex. “Report,” he commanded.

  The other Blood Angel inclined his head. “Little of import, sir. The conclave has reconvened after a short recess.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I think Mephiston called the pause for good reason. Angered words have reached us here from within.”

  “That is to be expected,” Rafen scanned the wide anteroom. As within the Grand Annex, out here every successor Chapter was represented by one or two armoured line troopers—escorts or honour guards for the ranking officers taking part. His eyes met those of Sergeant Noxx, who stood watching him from across the chamber with steady, blank menace.

  “The Flesh Tearer has been doing that all day,” said Ajir, with a grimace. “If he could cut me with that glare, I would be dead and bleeding upon the ground.”

  “Don’t allow him to irk you.”

  Ajir smiled without humour. “Of course not. I’m not Kayne. I have a better rein on my impulses.”

  Rafen let the comment pass. “Just stay alert.”

  “Always,” came the reply. The other Space Marine’s dark face shifted, becoming stiff. “Although I will confess it sits poorly with me to be on a battle footing in the halls of our own stronghold.”

  “We are Astartes,” said Rafen. “We are always on a battle footing.”

  A commotion drew the attention of the Blood Angels and as one they turned to witness the arrival of Brother Caecus, a woman and a hooded Space Marine in lockstep with him. “Stand aside,” the Apothecae was saying, “I must enter the Grand Annex.”

  An Angel Vermillion blocked his path. “The doors are sealed. Our Chapter Masters have ordered it so.”

  “This transcends those orders!” Caecus barked.

  Rafen stepped up, waving the other Space Marine aside. “Majoris? Is something wrong?”

  He noted at once that Caecus seemed very agitated, his face flushed with colour, his brow knit. “Open the doors,” he replied. “Do it now, brother-sergeant.”

  Ajir was at Rafen’s side. “Who is this?” The Astartes indicated the woman. “A servant of the magos biologis, here? Who granted her admittance?”

  “I did,” Caecus retorted. “Nyniq is here on my request. Now open the door! In Blood’s name, must I do it myself?”

  The Apothecary reached for the control mechanism that would retract the massive iron locking bar, but Rafen caught his wrist in the fingers of his armoured gauntlet. “You—”

  The Space Marine beneath the nondescript robes broke his silence, emitting a low growl, and with preternatural speed his hand snapped out to mirror Rafen’s gesture, grabbing the brother-sergeant’s arm before he could push Caecus away.

  Rafen shot the hooded figure a look; he saw a dark face with a feral cast to it.

  “No,” said Caecus, with the force of command behind the word. “Release him!”

  “Brother?” Rafen studied the other man; he did not know him, could not place his strangely-familiar appearance.

  “Brother.” The hooded figure repeated the word thickly, as if he were unfamiliar with the process of speaking it. The hand around Rafen’s wrist dropped away.

  “For the last time,” Caecus said, his voice rising, “open the doors! I will take all responsibility for any censure that results!”

  Noxx had moved closer. “You had better do as he says,” noted the Flesh Tearer. Rafen turned to Ajir and nodded once. “Open it.”

  Unsure of the protocol for an interruption of this nature, Rafen followed Caecus’ group inside, belatedly noting that Noxx was at his heels. He frowned, and walked on. The air inside the annexe was thick with tension; they had intruded into the midst of a forceful argument, of that he had no doubt.

  “What is the meaning of this disturbance?” The amplified vox of the Blood Sword Dreadnought Daggan was harsh and grating. “This is a closed session!”

  Caecus spoke before Rafen could frame an explanation. “Forgive me, lords, but what I have to impact to you could not be delayed. I must speak now, this very moment.”

  Mephiston shot Rafen an irritated glare and intercepted Caecus before he reached the circle of leaders. “Majoris, whatever you have to say, it must wait until the conclusion of this conclave.”

  “What I have to say may well change that conclusion!” he shot back. “I have an answer to the great dilemma!”

  “Caecus,” said Dante, a warning clear in his intonation.

  “Hold, cousin,” said Sentikan. “This is your Apothecae Majoris, is it not? Why not let him speak? What harm can one more voice do?”

  Dante bristled at the Angel Sanguine’s words. “My Brother Caecus is a learned man. But I fear his reach may exceed his grasp.”

  “Not so!” Caecus retorted. “Not anymore! I have mastered the skill of the replicae… I have a success!”

  “What does he say?” Seth cocked his head. “Cloning? It cannot be done!” He bared his teeth. “If such a thing were possible, the Flesh Tearers would have used it to bolster the numbers of our own Chapter, centuries ago!”

  “You tried to use replicae to recover your losses?” asked Orloc.

  “No.” The Lord of the Blood Angels became still. His face became granite-hard. “Caecus. You were ordered to desist in pursuit of this. Did you defy me?”

  The Apothecary’s bluster faltered in the face of his master’s icy manner. “I… You said only that I did not have your blessing, lord. You did not order me to stop.”

  “You dare to play with semantics like some Ministorum lackey?” snarled Mephiston. “You knew the intent behind the master’s words!”

  Dante shook his head. “I am disappointed, brother. I expected better from you.”

  “You should only be disappointed if he failed,” said Seth, coming forward with a sudden, new intensity in his eyes. “What of it then, Caecus? Where is
this success you talk of?”

  “Here, lords,” Nyniq dared to speak as she reached up and drew back the hood of the silent figure in the robes. “See the first of them. The first Bloodchild.” The warrior stood unmoving.

  An odd silence fell across the room for a few moments as the assembled Chapter Masters studied the clone, each one of them weighing the grave import of its presence. Their reactions ranged from sneers of derision to cold, measuring stares.

  “This is a genetic duplicate?” said Armis, clearly unconvinced. “He appears… a commonplace Astartes, nothing more.”

  “This is the first Sapiens Sanguina!” Caecus snapped. “A fully mature Blood Angel Space Marine force-grown from a nascent zygote sample, made manifest by my will!”

  Seth turned toward Dante. “Why did you keep this from us, cousin?”

  “I saw no merit in this work,” came the reply. “By his own admission, Caecus had nothing to show for his research.”

  “That was before,” said the Apothecae Majoris. “I have…” He glanced at Nyniq. “Made a breakthrough.”

  “Every clone you have created thus far has been unstable,” Mephiston growled. “All your attempts to duplicate the work of Corax have come to nought. Yet now you enter this chamber uninvited to parade one chance success and call it an achievement?”

  “I ask only for what I spoke of before!” Caecus retorted. “To be allowed to do my part to draw my Chapter back from the brink of dissolution!”

  Daggan’s torso turned to present his steel face to the assembled masters. “If this can be done… If this ‘Bloodchild’ is no fluke, then it will mean much for all our Chapters, not just for the Blood Angels.”

  “The ability to recoup losses in months instead of years,” mused Orloc. “It would be a tactical advantage worth having.”

  Dante’s eyes narrowed. “Cousins, in this matter I would counsel restraint.”

  “That is of no surprise,” said Seth. “But this is not a time for conservative thought, Lord Dante. If Caecus is as skilled as he appears, then this Bloodchild will solve all your problems, without the need of a tithe.”

  “And it will be to the interest of the Flesh Tearers as well,” added Armis.

  “Of course,” Seth agreed. “I make no secret of that.” He walked over to the done-Marine, studying its face intently. “The verification of this will be found only in one place.”

  “In battle,” said Daggan.

  “Aye.” Seth nodded. He snapped his fingers. “Brother-Sergeant Rafen?” He glanced at the Blood Angel. “Since you showed such prowess before in single combat, I would ask that you test this Bloodchild for us, in the arena.”

  Dante gave Rafen the smallest of nods and Rafen bowed slightly. “Very well, Lord Seth.”

  “Brother-Sergeant Noxx will join him,” said Dante.

  Seth turned back to study the Blood Angel master. “Two against one? That’s hardly sporting.”

  Dante’s reply was cold. “No confrontation between our kind ever is.”

  Rafen pulled the leather strap tight around his arm and secured it. He looked up and saw his face reflected in the triangular eye-slits of his helmet; the Blood Angel’s wargear rested upon an arming rack, a hollow man-shape like a red statue. The training tunic was tight around his chest, and the straps pressed into the places where the bruises and contusions from the last combat had still not fully healed.

  He sensed a presence behind him but did not turn.

  “I admit, I expected to meet you again in the arena,” said Noxx dryly, “but not so quickly. Or under such circumstances.”

  “I’ll try not to win so easily this time,” Rafen offered. “I would hate to shame you twice before all our kinsmen.”

  Noxx’s insouciant manner cracked. “You were lucky before.”

  “I’m certain you believe that.”

  The veteran sergeant grabbed him and spun him about, so that they were face to face. “I misjudged you, peacock, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”

  Rafen shrugged off his arm and walked to the weapons racks; sickle-sharp glaives and hook-ended short swords hung on belt straps. He drew the sword and tapped a thumb over the keen edge. “No training blades this time,” he said quietly.

  Noxx donned his weapons. “Of course not. It goes without saying; this will be a fight to the death.”

  “How so?” Rafen demanded.

  “It’s a clone,” Noxx snorted and walked away. “When it is dead your Brother Caecus can simply hatch out another.”

  The arena’s configuration had been changed from the previous bout. The mechanisms operating the moveable blocks had been retarded, allowing the combatant the opportunity to fight in an open area, with only the steep inclines of the walls to act as barriers. Rafen reached the edge of the stone bowl and saw the Bloodchild already waiting for them in the centre of the arena. As he watched, a servitor approached and deposited an identical hook sword to the one he carried upon the ground before the clone-Marine. For a long second, the duplicate studied the weapon, staring at it without apparent recognition.

  Rafen’s lip curled. Is it even aware of where it is, or what it is? The idea of replicae, of the test-tube growth of a man from a knot of cells to a full adult, conflicted him. It was a radical concept, and Caecus did not lie when he said the arcane process had the power to heal the Chapter’s losses; but Rafen could not help but wonder what kind of men it would create. What is a warrior if he does not have a past to draw from? A soul to pledge in the Emperor’s service? Little more than an organic machine?

  Then, with a quick flash of insight, the Bloodchild flicked the sword off the floor with a jerk of its foot, and caught the weapon by the hilt. It raced through a rapid series of practice moves with seamless ease, as if the clone had been fighting with the blade for decades. But still, in those strangely vacant eyes, there was nothing. Not the dead cold of a warrior hardened by death and killing, not the insane emptiness of a madman; a different kind of nothingness, a void like the absence of something within.

  The arming servitor climbed out and clattered to a halt. “This will be a trial combat. Fight to the shedding of blood, show courage and honour.” The machine-helot bowed its head. “In the name of Sanguinius and the Emperor.”

  “In the name of Sanguinius and the Emperor,” repeated Rafen and Noxx. The words had barely left the Flesh Tearer’s throat before he dropped into the fighting pit. Rafen gripped his hook sword and followed suit.

  There was no hesitation on the Bloodchild’s face; the clone-Marine understood what was to transpire in the arena. It pivoted off the back foot and turned into Noxx’s approach, the sword coming up to a guard position. The Flesh Tearer’s downward blow, augmented by the force of his dive into the pit, hit hard with a resonant clash of steel on steel. The clone dodged backward, drawing sparks off his opponent’s blade as he whipped his own sword away.

  Rafen ventured closer, out of fighting range for the moment, gauging the Bloodchild, watching him carefully for signs of hesitation, of unwariness.

  It was peculiar; by turns the clone-Marine behaved as if it were new to the business of fighting, and then in the next breath it moved like a seasoned veteran. He became aware that the clone’s lips were moving, talking to itself in low, hushed tones.

  Noxx attacked again, shouting a furious war cry. The clone bellowed back, imitating the other Astartes in pitch and tone with uncanny clarity. Noxx threw out a strike that was a clear feint and the Bloodchild fell for it, overextending. The Flesh Tearer reversed his blow and scored a hit, ripping through the clone’s robes and making a shallow cut across his chest. Without losing momentum, Noxx duplicated a mirror of the move, but this time the Bloodchild parried and slammed him away with a glancing blow from his fist.

  Noxx’s sandals scraped across the stone floor. “He catches on quickly,” said the other Astartes.

  The Bloodchild came about, suddenly coming for Rafen with the weapon in his hand held high; he was copying what he had seen Noxx do,
but with twice the speed and ferocity behind it. The Blood Angel ducked low to avoid the feint; it was an easy move, now he saw what it was.

  Or so Rafen thought. At the apex of the attack, the clone abruptly reversed and drew down in a falling strike, bright silver lashing at the Blood Angel’s neck. Rafen barely managed to turn his hook sword to deflect a blow that surely would have been mortal.

  Fool! He chided himself. Don’t underestimate this thing. Noxx is not wrong; he is quick, and he’s learning, adapting.

  Rafen flicked the sword and the hooks on each blade came together. With a clash of metal, the curved ends locked, Space Marine and clone thrown into a tug-of-war for control. Noxx saw the opportunity and came in to attack again. The Bloodchild pivoted, sacrificing his hold over Rafen to make a spinning kick at the advancing Flesh Tearer. Noxx was caught off-balance as a heavy foot slammed into his chest and knocked him to the ground.

  The clone extended his spin back toward Rafen, slashing the air with his hooked blade. The Blood Angel met the strike with equal force, parrying up as he brought a hard fist into his opponent’s sternum. Rafen felt something fracture where he landed the blow, but the Bloodchild did nothing but grunt.

  He forced forward, the blades going across one another in a screeching cross of razor on razor. For a moment, his face was a hand’s span from the clone’s, his gaze locked on those dead, dead eyes.

  “Brother,” repeated the duplicate, the word strange and alien upon his lips.

  The blades moved and Rafen took the pommel on the chin, but he shook it off. In return, the Blood Angel bucked forward, bending at the waist to drop a headbutt on the bridge of the clone’s nose. This time he was rewarded by a cry of pain.

  The Bloodchild snarled in anger and punched him back, in time to meet a fresh assault by Noxx. The Flesh Tearer’s blade cut again, this time across the clone’s seamless abdomen. It fought back, swinging its own sword in a fast arc that tore cuts through both its opponents.