Heroes of the Space Marines

by Nick Kyme

Gessart looked back at the screen and saw that the waving red energy seemed to part, unveiling a swirling maelstrom of colours. Though he had no psychic power at all even he could hear the screams and shouts of the daemonic host, like distant cries within his skull.

  ‘Immediate warp jump,’ snapped Gessart, focusing his attention back on the bridge.

  Beyne stood to one side of the command chair; a young, bright-eyed retainer with long hair. He was dressed in blue service robes like the other serfs, though his rank was signified by the silver rope at his waist. He held a dataslab in one hand, forgotten now, his gaze distant as he listened to the inner voices now assailing everybody aboard.

  ‘Activate warp shields,’ shouted Gessart. ‘Prepare for immediate jump.’

  There was no reaction from the crew.

  ‘Beyne!’ Gessart yelled, grabbing the man by his arm, careful not to squeeze too tightly and shatter the bone. The pain brought Beyne out of his trance and he looked at Gessart with panicked eyes.

  ‘Warp jump?’ he stuttered. ‘If we open a gate here the gravitational forces will pull us apart.’

  ‘There’s already a gate open, you imbecile!’ said Gessart, thrusting a finger towards the pulsing daemonic rift. ‘Enter that?’ replied Beyne, the fear written across his youthful face.

  ‘Heading zero-zero-eight by zero-seventeen by thirteen degrees,’ Gessart bellowed, turning his attention to the helmsmen to his left. They nodded and their fingers danced across their control panels as they laid in the course that would take the Vengeful directly into the warp breach.

  Satisfied that they were at least headed in the correct direction, Gessart turn to Zacherys, who was back on his feet, staring intently at the main screen.

  ‘I need you to navigate, Zacherys,’ Gessart said, stepping towards the Librarian. ‘Can you do that?’

  The Librarian nodded.

  ‘Where are we heading?’ he asked.

  ‘Anywhere away from here,’ said Gessart.

  Zacherys turned on his heel and made his way back into the main corridor, heading towards the navigational pilaster above the bridge. The doors closed behind him with a resounding crash.

  Gessart fixed his attention back to the main screen and the warp rift displayed upon it. It looked like a writhing miasma, interchanging between strangely-coloured flames, bright spirals of light and a seething ring of boiling reality. Faces appeared briefly and then faded from view. Swirls and counter-swirls of different hues rippled across its surface.

  The sound of an alarm pinging from a console broke Gessart’s fixation.

  ‘Saviour pod launched from the third battery, captain,’ announced one of the bridge attendants.

  ‘What?’ said Gessart. ‘Who launched it?’

  He strode across the bridge and shoved the serf out of his way. A schematic of the foremost starboard battery was on the screen, the saviour pod channel flashing green. A circular sensor display snowed the evacuation craft on a trajectory towards the planet below. Gessart activated his ship-wide address.

  ‘All Astartes, report in!’ he barked.

  As his warriors called in their locations, it became clear that Rykhel was missing. Gessart recalled that he had only been a reluctant convert to the departure from Helmabad.

  ‘Get me a hail frequency for that pod,’ Gessart demanded, rounding on the attendant who was nursing his arm from where Gessart had shoved him.

  ‘Linking in to your helm comms, captain,’ a serf at the communications bench told him.

  ‘Rykhel?’ Gessart said.

  There was a hiss of static for a moment before the Space Marine replied.

  ‘This is wrong, Gessart,’ said Rykhel. ‘I cannot be a part of this.’

  ‘Coward,’ snarled Gessart. ‘At least the others faced me and took their fate as warriors.’

  ‘The Chapter must hear of this treachery,’ said Rykhel. ‘You murdered Herdain and fled your duty. You cannot be allowed to go unpunished for this. You talked your way out of the recriminations for Archimedon; I cannot let you do that again. You have taken the first steps on a dark path and you have damned yourself and those that follow you.’

  Gessart heard the snick of the connection cutting before he could reply. Thankfully Rykhel’s accusations had been made on his command line, heard only by Gessart. He looked around the bridge and saw the serfs going about their work, ignorant of the exchange.

  ‘Continue on course,’ Gessart said, focusing on the screen once more.

  He wasn’t afraid of the consequences. Rykhel would die; at the hands of the rebels or the daemons. It was not important, for Gessart had resigned himself to his fate the moment he shot Herdain. The others had not yet realised that they were truly renegades now.

  The warp breach was expanding even as the Vengeful hurtled towards it. It swelled in size until the main screen could not contain it even without magnification.

  ‘I’m in position,’ Zacherys reported in Gessart’s ear.

  A few minutes later Gessart felt the lurch in his body and mind that signified a jump into warp space. Dislocation throbbed through his being as the Vengeful burst into the immaterium. His nerves buzzed with energy and shadows played across his vision. The constant murmuring of the daemons became louder and for a moment Gessart was sure that insubstantial hands were clawing at him. He knew the sensations to be false; the psychic shields of the strike cruiser were operating normally. Controlling the unnatural dread that seeped into the corners of his mind, Gessart switched off the screen and turned away.

  There was now no sensation of movement. All was calm as the Vengeful drifted upon the psychic tides, the raging tempest of energy held at bay by her warp screens.

  ‘Can you plot a course?’ Gessart asked as he hailed Zacherys.

  The Librarian’s reply was halting and suffused with strain.

  ‘No fix on Astronomican,’ he said. ‘Heading for eye of storm. Need to concentrate.’

  ‘Stand down from general quarters,’ Gessart announced. ‘Follow warp security rituals.’

  Unseen and out of mind, the world of Helmabad descended into nightmare.

  ONCE THE VENGEFUL was well clear of the Helmabad system and the roiling warp storm unleashed by the daemons, Gessart called his surviving Space Marines together. They gathered in the strike cruiser’s chapel; a carefully considered choice by Gessart in relation to what he had to say.

  The others entered to find Gessart already awaiting them, stripped of his armour, which was stowed on a frame to one side of the Chapter shrine. The small altar was bare of the ornaments and relics usually displayed. They had been the artifices of Herdain and Gessart had already disposed of them. In a similar vein, the company banner, which had remained on the ship for its safety, had been taken down and stowed away. Now the only reminder of the Space Marines’ allegiance was the Chapter symbol engraved into the metal of the bulkhead. Gessart had already arranged for some of the serfs to etch it out with acid once he was finished here.

  He stood with his arms folded across his broad chest as his battle-brothers attended him. Some looked at the bare wall and empty altar with confusion. Others were impassive, perhaps having already guessed the nature of Gessart’s announcement. Nicz stood apart from the rest, his eyes narrowed as he hawkishly watched Gessart.

  The last to enter was Zacherys. The Librarian still wore his armour, though within the confines of the ship’s warp shield he had removed his psychic hood to allow him to better see the currents of the immaterium and guide the ship. He did not look at Gessart, but instead stayed at the door, perhaps having already seen what was unfolding.

  Gessart said nothing. Instead he crossed the chapel to where his armour stood. Leaning down, he picked up a container of paint used by the serfs. Wordlessly, he dipped a thick brush into the black liquid within and drew the brush across the symbol upon his armour’s shoulder pad. A few of the Space Marines gasped at this obvious affront to the armour’s spirit and the obliteration of his rank insignia.

 
‘I am no longer a captain,’ Gessart intoned. He painted out the chest eagle. ‘The Third Company is no more.’

  Gessart continued to daub the pitch black onto his armour, his rough strokes eradicating the heraldry, campaign badges and honours displayed upon it.

  ‘We cannot return to the Chapter,’ Gessart said, putting down the paint and turning to face his men. ‘They will not understand what it is that we have done. We have killed our battle-brothers, and to our former masters there is no greater heresy. Rykhel deserted us for fear of their vengeance and he was right to do so. Think with your hearts and remember the hatred you felt for the traitors we have faced before. We are now those traitors. We willingly stepped over a boundary that kept us in check. If ever the Chapter learns that we have survived, they will hunt us down without pity or remorse.’

  Gessart picked up the paint once more and walked forwards. He proffered the container to Lehenhart who stood at one end of the group.

  ‘You are an Avenging Son no longer,’ Gessart said.

  Lehenhart looked grim, in stark contrast to his usual ready laugh and lively eyes. He nodded, turning his gaze towards the deck. With a brushstroke Gessart covered up Lehenhart’s Chapter symbol. Next in line was Gundar. He took the brush from Gessart and painted out the symbol himself.

  Some of the Space Marines were eager to break the last of their ties, hoping that perhaps the guilt they felt would be destroyed along with the cross-crosslet of the Avenging Sons. Others hesitated, seeking some remorse in Gessart’s eyes. They saw nothing but his iron-hard will to survive and realised that they were not being presented with a choice; they had made their decision back in the inner sepulchre of Helmabad. One by one the Space Marines destroyed that which had been most precious to them. A few had tears in their eyes, the first emotion they had felt since being brought to the Chapter as youths many war-torn years ago. Nicz was the last, his eyes boring holes into Gessart as he took the brush from his former captain and splashed the dark paint across his shoulder.

  ‘If you are captain no more, why do you still remain in command?’ Nicz asked, handing the brush back to Gessart. ‘By what authority do you give us orders?’

  Gessart did not say anything immediately but instead met Nicz’s cold stare with his own. Neither was willing to look away and they stood like that for several minutes.

  ‘If you think you can kill me, take your shot,’ Gessart eventually hissed, his eyes unwavering. ‘When you do, make it count. I won’t give you a second chance.’

  Confident that his message was clear, Gessart stepped back, still eying Nicz, and then eventually broke contact to look at the others.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Willusch.

  Gessart grinned. ‘Whatever we want,’ he replied.

  ‘Where should we go?’ said Tyrol.

  ‘Where all the renegades go,’ Gessart told them. ‘The Eye of Terror.’

  HONOUR AMONG FIENDS

  Dylan Owen

  ‘CONTACT ZERO-THIRTY!’

  ‘You sure, Scaevolla? I see nothing.’

  ‘Trust me, Larsus!’

  Scaevolla stroked the trigger of his bolter. A dozen rounds barked into the obscuring green fog, and screams wailed from the soupy atmosphere ahead. He and his men pounded towards the cries, eight hulking warriors in black power armour trimmed with gold. A blazing eye was superimposed on the eight-pronged star of Chaos emblazoned on their right shoulder pads: the heraldry of the Black Legion.

  The warriors whooped feral cries of joy. It had been a long journey through the void to this barren, mist-swathed planet, but now they could let off steam against the minions of the False Emperor ahead. Scaevolla almost felt sorry for the enemy. He needed one alive, to learn where fate had directed him, and to discover the name of the man he had sought since the visions made him leave the Eye of Terror a year ago.

  It was always a nightmare that would inspire Scaevolla to lead his men on another hunt. A year ago he had woken screaming from such a dream: silver, unblinking eyes penetrating his sleep. Instinct had led him to navigate his battle frigate, Talon of the Ezzelite, out of the shifting spheres of the Eye of Terror into the reality of Imperial space. A series of portents had led him to this world of lethal mists. Dozens of battleships emblazoned with symbols of the Ruinous Powers blockaded the planet, the wreckage of Imperial vessels drifting amongst them. The Talon had evaded these and landed undetected among low, mist-shrouded hills on a continent wracked by war. A kilometre away was a sprawling city under siege, towards which Scaevolla’s esoteric senses tugged. Whenever he closed his eyes, the image of a crowned skull seared his mind’s vision, and he knew that the man he had to kill commanded the defenders here.

  Las-rounds whined past or pattered harmlessly off the warriors’ armour. Scaevolla felt one brush his temple, but felt no pain. He pumped off another dozen rounds into the fog, each shot followed by a scream, closer this time. At his left, Opus, the bull of the squad, howled a tuneless battle-dirge accompanied by the roar of his autocannon.

  Lines of men in grey battle uniform emerged wraithlike from the mist, their masked helmets lending them an alien appearance – wide black eyes and metal snouts. The troopers’ helmets depicted a silver double-headed eagle, the insignia of the Imperial Guard. The front rank of the platoon knelt and the second rank stood upright, lasguns at the ready while the fallen curled on the floor. Ethereal green tentacles probed the living and caressed the dead. A sergeant bellowed and another volley was unleashed, but the shrill hail washed over the attackers’ power armour with no effect. Scaevolla calmly loosed a bolt and watched as the sergeant’s head exploded into meat and bone. He had not expected to encounter any of the planet’s defenders so soon after leaving the Talon. Perhaps this platoon of troopers was as lost in the mists as his squad was.

  Scaevolla and his men smashed into the enemy lines. When a man enters combat, his experience of time slows. For Scaevolla, the first second of the skirmish froze completely. He observed the tableau of impending destruction. Opus was mouthing a song, no doubt accompanying the infernal choir that sang ceaselessly inside his skull, his eyes rolled up into the sockets of his bald head, the death spitting from his autocannon hanging in mid-air. To Opus’s left was Sharn, his helmet featureless, devoid even of eye-slits, his flamer bathing the troopers with liquid fire. Further away was Ferox, head flipped back at an unnatural angle as a smooth shaft of glistening muscle with a muzzle of snapping teeth began to emerge from his mouth. Ahead was Icaris, his face contorted with anguish, tears of blood frozen on his cheeks, the air patterned crimson where his chainaxe lopped his opponents’ limbs. Icaris wept for his victims, who would never know the joys of serving the true gods.

  Scaevolla glanced right. Lieutenant Larsus had bisected a Guardsman with his chainsword, and was caught in mid-laughter savouring the gore splashing his face. Beyond him was Surgit, towering over his foes, power sword scabbarded, pistol holstered, his horned helm scanning the platoon for a worthy foe. Finally came Manex, emptying a stream of ammunition from his two bolt pistols into the enemy line, mouth frothing and eyes bulging from the poisons that fed into his brain from the tubes within his armour. Pride swelled in Scaevolla’s chest as he regarded his squad. Countless warzones had honed their battle skills, and none had ever failed him.

  The frozen scene melted, the motionless fighters slamming back to life. Bodies piled around the feet of Icaris and Larsus, both a blur of whirring chainblades, and Ferox’s monstrous tongue lashed among the troopers, flensing flesh, his hands erupting into vicious, slashing claws. Manex ripped torsos apart with the ferocity of his gunfire, and Opus howled aloud an incomprehensible opera, chorused by the deadly riff of his autocannon, while Sharn burned a hole in the enemy lines. Although outnumbered, the warriors of the Black Legion were carving bloody chunks in the ranks of the Imperial Guard, whose bayonets stabbed feebly at their power armour. The troopers’ attempts at swamping their attackers through sheer weight of numbers were like the ocean lashing in vain at a ti
dal wall.

  A commissar in a leering skull mask rushed into the fray, power sword raised, haranguing the troopers to fight to the bitter end, cutting down those who dared take a step backwards. Surgit, ignoring the las-fire zipping around him, cackled in triumph, drew his power sword and ploughed through the troopers to meet the officer blow for blow.

  A bayonet stabbed at Scaevolla, who opened a hole in its owner’s skull with a shot from his boltgun. More bayonets bit into his armour. Scaevolla stepped back, firing indiscriminately, and the bayonets fell away into the fog. A single trooper stood his ground, clutching his ruined arm. Scaevolla reached out with his left hand and gently traced the leather of the man’s mask with a claw of his armoured glove. He spoke softly. ‘What year is this? What planet? Who leads your foes?’

  The words choked weakly from behind the gas mask.

  ‘Pl… planet? Zincali VI. We fight the Traitor-Lord H’raxor. The year? W… why…?’

  ‘Who commands your defences?’

  ‘Captain Demetros… of the Imperial Fists… he will cleanse your filth. The Emperor protects…’

  With a flick of Scaevolla’s clawed fingers, the material of the gas mask fell away, revealing a pale face, eyes dazed. The soldier took a deep breath and winced. He clamped his uninjured hand to his neck, his mouth gaping wide, throat gurgling, and as Scaevolla watched, dark green, fleshy shoots pushed their way out of the soldier’s mouth, bulging his neck. The man sank to his knees, tiny vines growing from his nostrils. With a strangled groan, he toppled to his side, eyes glazed, and within seconds his corpse was wrapped in a vegetal embrace, roots snaking into the black earth, pinning the body to the ground.

  Scaevolla breathed deeply, the spore-rich air bitter to the taste. He smiled at the frailty of lesser men.

  The sounds of battle trailed away. The few Imperial Guard who had survived the onslaught had vanished like ghosts into the green mist. Where once had stood an ordered line of determined soldiers there now lay piles of broken corpses, green shoots sprouting from bloody wounds where the minute spores in the mist had seeded in flesh. The ground flared where Sham’s flamer incinerated the bodies of the half-dead, and in the fire’s glow, Icaris mumbled the Litany of Execration over the corpses. Manex snuggled in Opus’s iron grip, pinned down until his frenzy subsided. Ferox was metamorphosing back, his hands already human, his eel-like appendage vomiting gobbets of half-digested meat as it shrank back into his distended mouth. For his outstanding valour, Ferox had been blessed by the gods with these mutations, which burst forth from his flesh under duress. While his comrades regarded Ferox with awe, Scaevolla did not share their admiration. He remembered the old Ferox that these gifts had consumed, who had bolstered the squad’s morale with his easy manner and ready wit, now long disappeared.