BrotherhoodThe Imperial Dauntless Class Light Cruiser Absolution sped through the warp, its energy shields crackling as they strove to cope with the massive psychic current battering them. Over a mile long and heavily armed, the vessel was instantly recognisable as part of the Emperor’s Crusade Fleet – the instrument of His vengeance. On the bridge, Marshal Dargan sat in the huge, padded command chair and reflected on the chain of events that had brought him to this point. The Moldion Crusade had been in progress for just over a year, but the new name had just been given with the loss of that freshly colonised planet to the Imperium. That had been just the beginning of the slaughter, with five more planets falling in short order and two more being granted the ultimate curse of Exterminatus to prevent their secrets falling into the hands of Chaos. Dargan was an old man. Four hundred years had passed since he was born into the galaxy, and now he knew his time was almost up. This glorious and stressful command would probably be his last. Elderly, with a wise, lined face surmounted by neatly trimmed white hair and an inspiring blue-eyed gaze, the Marshal had been part of twenty Crusades in his lifetime and commanded seven of those. Now he knew he was too old – but he was also the most experienced general on hand. Most of the Chapter was fighting in the Armageddon and Golgotha sectors, part of the huge Imperial force amassing to strike into Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka’s Ork domains, so he, one of only three Marshals not caught up in that sector-wide war, had been assigned the job of pacifying the Rhesus sub-sector – a sub-sector that was plagued by Chaos. The Crusade had already claimed the life of its first Marshal, Brion, and he was still settling in on the Absolution. The lights on his chair arm winked yellow – a private message. He got up and walked into the lift. Three floors down the old man got out and stepped into his large, spartan chamber in the bridge tower. The room was dull, gunmetal grey, decorated with the spoils and rewards of a dozen campaigns. Dargan sat down in his own chair, uttered a brief prayer to Dorn and switched on the vid-screen. The face of his Chief of Apothecaries, Borus, materialised on it. Another ageing veteran, at least three hundred, his white robes shining in the otherwise dim Apothecarion. The old warrior’s face was lined with concern. “Greetings, Marshal Dargan.” He nodded sincerely, the vid-screen blurring his face as it tried to keep up with his movements. “The same, Borus. What on Terra motivated you to speak to me in person at this hour?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, angling his head forward. “I wish to speak with you concerning the two brother Marines we recovered from Moldion.” Borus braced himself for a retort. He wasn’t disappointed. “Isn’t that a matter for the Chaplain or Castellan?” asked Dargan bitterly, his eyes slowly blinking. “Normally, it would be, but these two are such interesting cases I thought you might be interested.” “Oh well… if you must. It’s not as if life can get much worse, speak away.” Dargan looked back up at the screen and nestled back into his chair. “The first, the Neophyte, is physically intact apart from minor fatigue. However, his dedication to his duties has radically dropped since his recovery, and I think he’s hiding something.” Borus’ computerised image looked around, and then leaned forward conspiratorially. “However, it is the Initiate who interests me the most, and that’s a fact. I was so moved by his condition that I invoked my right to have the Astropath psychically test him.” “Go on…” Dargan said, interested despite himself. “He’s suffering from massive psychic trauma, Marshal. He appears to have been psychically attacked by someone or something while he was present there. Some entity or entities unknown have placed a repetitive, alien thought pattern into his mind, a pattern I’ve never encountered in a human before. The psychic cancer appears to be benign, but nonetheless, I think you will draw the same conclusions I have.” “Who are these two survivors of yours, Borus?” Dargan was by now sitting upright, his tiredness forgotten. “The same ones who were relocated from Voss’ crusade on Korros. Darius and Gideon.” Far, far below the bridge and almost a mile along the ship, the same two brother Marines were asleep in a much smaller and even less comfortable room. For one, however, it was not a peaceful sleep. Gideon sat bolt upright in his bed; sweat pouring off his face and down the long, jagged scar running from his forehead to his jaw by way of his left eye. He glanced around the room. No daemons, no Eldar, just his quarters on the Absolution. He shook his head and uttered the Litany Against Corruption. “Almighty Emperor, Father of Mankind, protect me from evil and those who would do its work!” He slumped back down into the bed. Across the room, a youthful voice whispered, “Lights!” and the dull blue night-lights flickered into operation. Darius swung his legs over the side of the bed and stared at his master. “Were you seeing it again?” he asked, his face mixing curiosity and concern. “The same wretched vision, Darius! The same dream!” Gideon thumped the mattress, his considerable strength making even the fairly soft fabric thud. “I can’t believe I trusted him! All my training, all my beliefs had been preparing me for that moment and I failed! That accursed psyker!” He spat on the floor as he said this, thumping his chest in the sign of the Emperor. “Aryani wasn’t trying to corrupt you, master, he was trying to pass on his quest!” Darius got up and stalked around the room before collapsing into the small chair facing out of the porthole. “He needed someone to succeed where he failed. You were the only person he could trust.” “He was a psyker, Darius, and an alien, the most evil kind of creature in the universe.” Gideon’s voice was flat and unbelieving, his natural zeal no longer present in his words. “That is not true. Remember the daemon Khastarax?” Darius made the Imperial sign himself, shaking his head. “Are you telling me Aryani was worse than him?” “Yes – no. I don’t know any more. I’ve lost my control, heresy has made me its tool, and right or wrong I trusted him and it shall lead me to damnation!” Gideon got up and began to pace the floor himself. “The end justifies the means, master. Perhaps if we ever find and destroy the daemon it’ll go away. And anyway – if Aryani was so evil, then why didn’t you kill him when you met him?” Darius leaned forward. “He seemed to know what he was doing, he had charisma, and he had foresight. I followed him into that pit of Chaos. My own curiosity is as much to blame.” He cast his head down. Darius stood before him, rubbing salt into the wound. “So why are you carrying on with his mission if it leads you to damnation?” “Because for all his evil he was a comrade, Darius, the closest thing we can have to friends! I cannot, will not, allow his sacrifice to mean nothing! I have to go on, for the sake of my sanity and his memory. And so should you. Kryssia died at the hands of Khastarax too.” Unconsciously, Darius took out the spirit stone from around his neck. The softly glowing green gemstone was his only reminder of his former friend, the Howling Banshee Exarch Kryssia. She had indeed fallen against the daemon Khastarax, ironically to save Darius’ life, passing him the stone with her dying breath. Why she’d done this he had no idea. Gideon smiled at him. “It seems Moldion left its mark on you too! I’ll be
fine. Get back to sleep.” Dargan sat unmoving in his chair. It had been an hour since he’d spoken to Borus, and now he had his mission objective on the screen for reviewing. He was worried. It seemed to be the most stressful part of a downright awkward command. The words hung on the screen, green on black, etched into his mind. The voice-synthesiser spoke up, delivering the audio briefing from High Marshal Helbrecht himself. “Marshal Dargan,” the voice began. “Your Crusade Company has been assigned to the Absolution for transport to the co-ordinates in the accompanying star chart. Upon arrival, an Inquisitor will rendezvous with you. He is to be granted full control of the Absolution and all troops on board for the duration of his mission. Render him all possible assistance – his objective should be considered the sacred command of the Blessed Emperor. I repeat, Dargan – he is in full command of you and the rest of your Company. Helbrecht out!” The powerful voice faded away into static. Dargan tapped a control and the star chart flashed up. That was what worried him. His rendezvous point was on the edge of a large area of space that was declared Purgatus. A whole area marked off as dangerous, accessible only to the very highest ranking of Imperial personnel. What was in there he had no idea. And on top of this he had to cope with two possibly corrupt brother Templars and commanding the Imperial Guard regiment on board. No wonder he was so tired. The Imperial Guard barracks resounded to the tramp of marching feet as the Lamaan Fortieth Regiment went about its business. The ship’s computer had just simulated dawn, a dirty yellow light throughout the labyrinthine corridors of the Absolution, but regimental business went on no matter what the hour. Five Guardsmen were gathered around the small burner in a guardroom, exchanging rumours with a sixth who lounged by a communications console. The seventh and eighth members of the squad were on patrol, ninth and tenth sitting up in bed, just awoken. The man by the comm.-link spoke first. “Hey, guys, I’ve got something!” Feynes punched the air in triumph. Gorn and Barras moved over to him. Gorn, a sizeable man in scavenged mesh armour, looked over his shoulder. “What? The briefing?” he said, his soft voice at odds with his bulky frame. “What in hell are we doing out here?” “Not sure yet,” Feynes began, “but I just heard the Marshal giving out the final co-ordinates. According to him, we’re headed for the something-or-other Monolith.” “The Ymgarl Monolith?” Riol chimed from his bunk. “Isn’t that that monument thing on the Eastern Fringe?” “Search me.” Feynes answered, twiddling the controls. “That and something about meeting up with another ship.” “It’d better not be more blasted Templars!” Barras muttered. “I hate those guys, marching onto our ship like they own it.” The little man was the squad’s pessimist; he never failed to see the bad side of anything. Feynes, Gorn, Riol and three others murmured approval. They all disliked the Space Marines. “They really scare me. All that praying and chanting isn’t natural.” The normally taciturn Torfk spun around in his chair and joined in the Templar bashing. “What annoys me is the way they never tell us anything. Where are we going? I cannot say!” This last sentence was uttered in mock-deep tones, and most of the unit laughed. Trooper Tarsh just shifted uneasily in his bed. It had been almost a week since the meeting and his holy purpose was starting to dim. The Absolution exited warp space in a column of white light, reality twisting to allow the cruiser in. It slipped into the blackness of the Materium smoothly, the massive plasma drive powering it toward the murky purple gas cloud ahead of it. As they came closer, a mechanized recording reverberated around the fifty-foot long bridge. +++ This is an Imperial Purgatus zone. State your clearance code and purpose or turn back now. +++ Dargan rubbed his nose. “Well, these are our co-ordinates, and there’s no sign of the-“ He never finished. About a mile to the ship’s left another, much thinner column of light tore reality apart and the long, slender shape of a Sword frigate appeared. The ship was painted a ridiculously dark shade of blue, almost a dead match for the space around it. Upon its side panel the smaller vessel bore a winged skull symbol – the emblem of the Inquisition. The vid-screen flickered as the Inquisitor’s ship transmitted. A shape appeared on the monitor, a shape shrouded in a midnight blue robe. “Marshal Dargan, well met. My name is Carravar, Inquisitor Carravar. Ordo Malleus.” Dargan stared at the image of the hooded man on the screen. So this was his mystery Inquisitor. This was the man who had been sent to take command of his force for some secret mission into a Purgatus Zone. He cleared his throat and replied in hushed tones. “Well met, Inquisitor Carravar. May the Emperor’s light shine for you.” “You as well, Marshal. You are aware of the situation.” Not a question or an order – just a statement. “I will be transported to your ship within the hour, at which point we will continue our mission. Praise the Emperor!” Carravar’s hooded head disappeared from the monitor in a whirl of static. Dargan looked around the huge bridge chamber. “You heard him, men. Prepare a landing bay for the Inquisitor and his retinue; they’ll be here by 0800. Brother Crassus, organise some guards for him. Navigator, prepare yourself for immediate departure once he’s on board. Get me a link to the ship’s alarm system.” A tech-priest tapped at his console, then handed Dargan a microphone. All over the ship, the Marshal’s voice could be heard as he spoke into the machine. “Now hear this, now hear this. Our commander for this mission, Inquisitor Carravar, will shortly be arriving on board. I expect all personnel to make his work as easy as possible – this means everyone, Guardsmen included. Dargan out.” Gideon paused in the mechanical task of stripping down his boltgun and nodded curtly at the speaker. “Did you hear that?” he asked gruffly, blinking his red-rimmed, tired eye. “He drags us halfway across the sector on some mystery mission and now he tells us the Inquisition are involved. This gets better and better!” he finished with a sarcastic expression of joy on his face. “The Inquisition? Who in the name of Dorn are they?” Darius asked, eyes still fixed on the combat knife he was sharpening. “The Emperor’s left hand, Darius. Where we fight Chaos and evil openly with steel and fire, they fight an unsung war in the darkness, seeking out the forces of heresy on their own turf. They are righteous men, forever travelling the galaxy, doing the covert work of the Emperor.” Gideon made the eagle-sign over his forehead, then turned back to his boltgun. “If they’re so righteous, then why the sarcasm, master?” He tried another question – Gideon was unusually communicative today and he wanted as many answers as he could get. “If the Inquisition is involved then this business is important. I was lucky enough to fight with an Inquisitor as part of the Rajor Crusade forty years ago, when we were attacking an Ork holding on a mining world, only to discover it was the beginning of a Chaos invasion. The Orks had been sent to clear the way so that Chaos could overrun the world and start its corruption from within the galaxy, but our strength prevailed and the daemon-possessed Warlord who led them was destroyed, thank Dorn.” Gideon finished reassembling his weapon and turned to his youthful protégé. “So, as you can see, the Inquisition means a lot to us.” “You’ve changed since Moldion, you know that? Before I wouldn’t have gotten an answer out of you, now I get too much.” Darius smiled and looked up at the chronometer on the wall. “Damn! It’s almost vespers!” he said, jumping into the air and running for the door, Gideon at his heels, switching off the light as he left. In the dark, empty chamber, the spirit stone lying on Darius’ bed began to emit a dull, throbbing red light, casting the weapons’ shadows high on the wall. The Inquisitor’s shuttle cruised into the Absolution’s landing bay, two plasma ramjets supporting the long, slender dagger-shape of plasteel. Forty Imperial Guardsmen and twelve Black Templars were arranged in the bay, twenty Guardsmen in lines on either side of the shuttle with the Templars forming a guard of honour around the exit port. Dargan strode heavily down the aisle his battle-brothers formed; the ship’s captain and commissar behind him. He paused at their head, a mere five metres from the nose of the ship. The retractable gangplank slid out of the base, clanging as it hit the deck, an airlock opened with a hiss of pneumatic motors and the robed silhouette of Carravar was projected onto the two men waiting for him at the end of the ramp. The Inquisitor stepped down from his ship. He seemed unusually bulky for a human, the hang of his cloak disturbed by strange polygonal shapes underneath the fabric. A sizeable hood completely obscured his face, but from within the depths Dargan could hear the mechanical whirr and hiss of a re-breather mask. When he reached the bottom of the ramp the Guardsmen and captain snapped a simultaneous salute. Carravar stood between them, dwarfed by the power-armoured Templar Marshal beside him. Finally he spoke, his voice distorted by the re-breather. “Well met, at last, Marshal.” Dargan guessed that the re-breather wasn’t medical, but simply to disguise the sound of the man’s voice. They began to stride out of the bay, Carravar speaking again as they left. “I would appreciate it, Marshal, if you could provide me with guards during my stay. My mission is too important to be hindered, and I feel there is something wrong here.” “Intuition, Inquisitor?” asked Dargan sarcastically. He wasn’t feeling at all generous towards this little man who’d just marched onto his ship and taken over. “Psychic intuition, indeed, and call me Carravar,” he replied. “There is some great disturbance on this vessel. My mission has an element of the arcane, I admit that, but not enough to account for the psychic storm that surrounds us.” They turned for a lift and Dargan waved away the two Black Templars and the captain. As they stepped in, he took the opportunity to remove at least some of his uncertainty. “Carravar, may I be frank?” The hooded head nodded once. “I don’t like this ship or this mystery mission. You would make me feel considerably relieved if you informed me exactly why we are venturing into a Purgatus zone, and what is ‘arcane’ about our quest.” “I cannot tell you all, but what I can tell I shall. We are heading for the Ymgarl system, that accursed place where the Genestealer menace was first discovered over three thousand years ago. When the system was abandoned, a warp storm struck the convoy and paralysed many vessels, trapping them in a spaceship graveyard somewhere in this area. I have the means to negotiate this warp storm – why I must, I cannot say. Suffice to say that the safety of the sector could well depend on this mission – we won’t know until we’re in.” Dargan angled his head in thanks. The lift reached the habitation deck and the two men stepped out and headed down the corridor. They eventually came to a small stateroom off the main passage. Dargan bowed, motioning his guest into the room. Carravar strode in silently and the door whirred shut behind him. Dargan was turning around for the lift when two un-armoured Marines barrelled into him at some considerable speed. The three of them collapsed into a pile on the floor. Darius was the first on his feet, stretching out an arm to help Dargan up again. The elderly Templar glowered at him and spoke sternly. “May I enquire of my brothers exactly what makes them hurry so?” he asked with deliberate lack of speed. “Many apologies, my liege, but we were late for vespers and-“ Gideon’s floor-level apology was cut off by Dargan’s reply. “Gideon and Darius, aren’t you?” he enquired, the harshness gone from his eyes. “Yes, sir.” Darius snapped bolt upright, now aware exactly whom he’d hit. “When the service is over, brothers, come to the
conference room off the bridge. I need to talk to you two.” Two hours later, they were sitting in the swivel chairs of the conference chamber before Dargan and also the Company Chaplain, Adamantus, and Inquisitor Carravar. Darius squirmed uncomfortably under the three cutting stares. Dargan tapped out his short, sharp refrain on the arm of the chair. Finally he broke the silence. “I have ordered you to come before me, my brothers, to
discuss your reports from the Apothecarion. Normally our revered guest would not
be involved, but I feel that he can shed some light on affairs. Reading your
medical reports, I have discovered that both of you are suffering from psychic
trauma. This is what I wish to discuss with you.” The two Marines looked at each other nervously. Carravar spoke next, his voice still twisted by the mechanical re-breather hidden under the voluminous hood. “Psychic trauma – an unusual case in Black Templars. Please, gentlemen, tell me more. I would hear of your condition from your own lips.” Gideon whispered to Darius – “I’ll go first. Don’t tell them about Korros if you can at all help it.” Over the course of thirty minutes, he told them about the catastrophic events of their last mission on the planet of Moldion, their alliance with the Eldar and their encounter with the Daemon Prince Khastarax. Throughout his account, Carravar listened intently, never questioning his authenticity. Finally, he told them about his vision, the vision he’d been granted by Aryani, the Eldar psyker he’d fought alongside. Adamantus leant out of the chair to stare directly at him, his gaze wild and decidedly disparaging. “Are you aware of the nature of this condition, brother Gideon? Of how it stands against our creed of purity in mind, body and soul?” asked the Chaplain, his hand clenching and unclenching spasmodically. “I am aware of this fact, brother-Chaplain. I prefer to ignore it.” Gideon replied in a small voice, totally unlike his normal confident tone. “This, this vision of yours, it is sinful and heretical in nature!” Adamantus spat. “It is against everything which we stand for, it is corrupting you!” Gideon gave Darius an I-told-you-so sort of look. The Chaplain looked as if he was about to strike Gideon, but Carravar stayed his hand. “As a psyker myself, Chaplain Adamantus,” – this drew a glare from the priestly warrior – “I have to say that Gideon’s vision appears to be a stroke of luck for us. It tells us something of vital importance concerning the Chaos power of which he spoke – namely, that it is not defeated, and that it has a backup plan. I am assuming Darius’ case is similar?” The Neophyte bowed his head before replying. “It is, master Inquisitor. I have been plagued by emotions and thoughts that are – are somewhat inappropriate to one of the Emperor’s Chosen.” His voice choked on the words as he thought of the spirit stone. Carravar laughed softly inside the helmet. “I see. Marshal, Chaplain, what do you think should be done with these two supposedly corrupt warriors?” “I would recommend mind purging without delay!” Adamantus snapped, thumping the table and splintering the top. “Moderation.” Dargan said, scratching the top of his crown of white hair. “Suggest that Gideon and Darius are, for the moment, left alone, at least until this Chaos power makes its next move.” “I have a suggestion myself.” Carravar began. “I have need of two informed warriors to act as my attaches during my presence aboard this ship. Gideon and Darius are therefore requisitioned to join me for the duration.” He leant back in his chair. “In the meantime, my brother Marines, you may depart and relocate yourselves to my chambers in the bridge tower. That is all.” The two of them rose, bowed and left in silence, with Adamantus’ stare following them across the room. In the Templar quarters, the spirit stone’s light was a bright red, illuminating large tracts of the chamber’s floor through the tangled bedclothes, and the bass throb sounded low and hollow in the confined space. One of the guardrooms deep within the Absolution’s bowels was filled with men gathered around an anti-grav lifting platform. Atop the platform stood Varian, the ship’s Astropath and its sole communication with the Imperium. In his purple robes he was an imposing figure, despite his blind eyes in their hollow black sockets. All the Guardsmen were standing around him, staring raptly and listening to his voice in their minds. Trooper Tarsh was among them, hearing the psychic litany wash over his skull, drowning out the pain within his back. He could feel the bones shifting underneath – he knew his Apotheosis was near. The Astropath motioned with his hand and the group of about fifty men scattered, going about their business. Darius and Gideon were sitting in Carravar’s stateroom, on opposite sides of the table. Resting on it was Kryssia’s spirit stone, now a blazing red in colour. The glow had faded again to an inner lustre, but it was far, far brighter than it ever had been before. Gideon looked up from the luxurious seat. “I wonder what he wanted us for?” the towering Initiate asked, almost talking to himself in the gloom. “Perhaps he’s interested in that vision of yours?” Darius suggested. “Perhaps he just wants two warriors less pious than most around him.” “Less pious?” Gideon’s eyebrows rose in mock horror. “Me, less pious? I’m damned if that’s true!” He punched the table theatrically before gazing down on the stone again. “Why do you think it’s doing that?” “I have no idea – “ Darius started to speak, but the door was already hissing open. He grabbed the stone on its chain and snapped it around his neck. Carravar staggered in and sank into his own seat facing the door. He pulled back his hood and slipped the arcane re-breather off his face. Underneath the machine he looked to be about seventy, a wide, expressive face with pale blond hair neatly brushed into a parting. Two green eyes gazed keenly out of the face, perpetually glancing from one of them to another. He smiled at them briefly before uttering a single word. “Goodnight.” In the small offshoot room
of the stateroom complex, Gideon and Darius were asleep, both tossing and
turning fitfully as they dozed. Darius didn’t dream often, but tonight his sleeping vision was unusually vivid. Unknown to him, the spirit stone about his neck was pulsing regularly now, emitting a silent red throbbing light. All he knew was what he dreamed. He was back on Mira, in the Hall of the Inducted, just after he’d been selected for the Chapter. But instead of the statue of Rogal Dorn that should dominate the cathedral, there were two archways. Through one of them, he could see a dark, thorny landscape under a blood-red sky. Through the other, an idyllic green pasture with tall deciduous trees towering over a path. Above the thorny path was the symbol of the Black Templars, the black cross on the white background. Above the other was traced the strange rune he remembered seeing daubed on the walls of Commoragh, the Slaanesh sign, (see Man Alone), the odd symbol that was a combination of male and female signs. He turned around to see Kryssia standing behind him on the left, the same side as the thorns. She was as he’d last seen her, clad in the off-white Banshee armour, but her helmet missing to reveal the pale, savage face with the long crop of brown hair. She smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. She spoke in the same soft voice that he remembered. “I told you I’d be with you,” she said. “That’s why I gave you the spirit stone. Through it, I can live on. I can still fight through you.” He gazed into her dark, sad eyes, the same eyes that Khastarax’s Demagogue had extinguished. “You mean you’re still alive inside the stone?” he asked. “In a way. My soul lives on, but my body is long since dead, my armour ruined. Exarch Kryssia cannot go on living.” “You’re all the Kryssias, aren’t you? The one Khastarax said killed him, the one before that and all the others, ever?” Darius was amazed to see her here, seemingly alive and well. “I am. And this, Darius, is your choice. Carrying the spirit stone is the first step on a Path to darkness or light, good or evil, law or Chaos. You’re no Eldar, but you have the choice we have thanks to the stone. The good way may be hard, but you’ll have me with you.” She indicated the thorny path. “So who do I get if I go the other way?” He had to ask. He had to know the difference. A voice on his right-hand side spoke into his ear, another female voice, another hauntingly familiar voice. “Me.” The voice stated simply. It was the voice of the Dark Eldar Archon. He looked to the right, and there she was, exactly as he remembered her, languid, sensual, arousing. He felt Kryssia’s hand leave his shoulder as the Dark Eldar wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. He felt her cold lips touch his, her hair falling about her. Her body pressed against him, tensing and twisting under her skin-tight armour. He was tempted. He had almost given in to her before. She pulled her lips away from him and stared into his eyes. “You have a second chance, Darius. You can do what you wanted to before, and I can be yours. Not just now, but forever. Forever.” Her hands rubbed through his hair, tormenting his throbbing skull. He stared at her, and then wrenched himself free, hurling her into the idyllic scene. She mouthed something at him, her voice echoing through his mind. “Why?” she was screaming at him. “Because it was too easy.” He grinned at the receding image. “Khastarax only let you out to tempt me but you’ll get no joy this time or ever again.” As she fell back, Kryssia re-appeared in his arms, eyes wide open in relief. “You did the right thing, Darius. You stuck to your
training. You can go on.” Gideon was dreaming too. He was in that wretched vision again. He stood on the plain of ash before Khastarax’s fortress, the rivers of blood flowing across a grey landscape. As he stared hatefully down at the place, he heard a voice next to him. “Grotesque, isn’t it just?” said the voice. Aryani was standing next to him, helmeted, singing spear in his hand. That was how Gideon remembered him best, the fighter outnumbered but battling on against the odds. Gideon jumped back in shock. “I thought you were dead!” he shouted. “I am dead.” The Farseer replied. His body was translucent, the background visible through his green robes. “But part of me lives on in you.” “Get out of my head!” Gideon snarled. “I don’t want to fight your damned battle against Chaos! I want my own mind back!” “Calm yourself!” Aryani said, and to his surprise Gideon found himself paralysed a mere foot away from the Eldar. “I didn’t want to fight and die, Gideon. Hasn’t that dawned on you yet, that I didn’t want to sacrifice my life to that creature? I could have had my idea of heaven, to stay on Biel-Tan and be absorbed into my homeworld. But I had no choice. Neither do you. Fate commands us, Gideon, and it is almost done commanding me, but I still have one last task to perform.” “And what’s that?” asked Gideon, released from the Farseer’s power. “I must relieve you of the
responsibilities of your Chapter for a time, that you might fight on unhindered
by faith or restriction. There will come a time, sooner rather than later, when
your life will be in danger. When you are in greatest peril, then I shall
perform my task and allow you to carry on the fight. Until that time,
farewell!” Aryani waved his hand in salute and faded slowly out of existence.
Gideon stared at the empty space, then out over the blazing plain of Chaos.
Somehow he thought it seemed a lot closer than before. Darkness surrounded the Absolution
as it headed into the depths of the unknown. Inquisitor Carravar’s mystery
mission was taking it into the unfathomable heart of the Ymgarl Purgatus zone;
the area that had been purged after the Genestealer menace had been discovered
there. Little did its crew of man and Marine know that that menace was far from
dead. Gideon and Darius were alone. The man assigned to their safekeeping, the visiting Inquisitor, was in a meeting to decide the overall plan for the mission, and so they had been left alone to wander the ship. Gideon, the power-armoured Black Templar Initiate with only one eye and a deep scar dividing the other clean in two, and Darius, the younger Neophyte, with his sideburns and his unique moral code. The two of them were currently at rest in the ship’s small chapel; contemplating the psychic trauma they were both afflicted with. Darius broke the silence with a suitably cryptic remark. “Master,” he began, “do you think the two of us are going mad?” “What?” Gideon laughed out loud, squinting at his charge quizzically. “The vision of the future, and now this. I had such a strange dream last night.” Darius leaned back and spread his arms over the back of the pew. “I dreamt – no, it’s stupid.” “Go on.” Gideon said, interested. “I dreamt I saw Kryssia and that fiend from Commoragh again, both alive and well. They said that my time had come, the time to choose between the easy and the hard, the evil and the good way of life, the thorny path or the pasture.” “Which way did you choose?” asked Gideon, sitting down next to him. “The thorns, Kryssia’s way. The other way just seemed too easy.” Darius shrugged nervously. “Besides, the fiend stood at the other portal, and I nearly lost my soul to her before, Emperor forgive me.” He crossed his arms vehemently. “I too dreamed strangely last night, Darius. The same vision, but somehow closer, more imminent. Aryani was there; or rather his mind was there, some ghost of him that lives on in me. He told me that soon my life would be threatened, and he would save me to let the quest go on. He said as well that I would have to be freed from the Chapter rules, for a time at least.” Gideon clenched his fists. “It was him, Darius, exactly as I remember him best! He said that he wasn’t finished yet, that he had one more task to perform, a task that would soon be revealed.” “Mystery upon mystery!” commented Darius. “Our lives grow steadily more complex as the days go by.” “One thing is constant, Darius.” Gideon answered. “Our faith. As long as we believe in the righteousness of our being and our Emperor’s legacy, we will never fall.” The five Guardsmen huddled in the barracks – Feynes at
the door, lasgun ready, Barras and Gorn sitting next to the table with their
weapons within reach, Tarsh at the inner door and Riol at the comm.-link.
All were alert. All were strong in their faith. All, that is, except
Tarsh. The bones in his shoulder were shifting constantly now. The moment of
Apotheosis was almost on him, he could feel the pressure building beneath his
skin. He hoped the signal would come soon. He needed to be free. Around the table in the conference room Carravar was sitting with the officers of the ship – an Imperial Captain called Fargol, the Templar Marshal Dargan, the Chaplain Adamantus, one Adeptus Mechanicus tech-priest and the ship’s Commissar. One seat around the conference table was empty, though, that of the ship’s Astropath, Varian. He hadn’t been seen in two days. Carravar was speaking hotly to the others, his eyes glancing from left to right perpetually, undetectable underneath the hood. “I cannot say where we are going, gentlemen, or what we may expect to find there! Truth be told, I am not sure myself! I am forbidden by the highest order of my superiors in the Inquisition to divulge the exact details of our mission! You have your co-ordinates, why do you not follow them?” “Because we are in doubt as to the righteousness of your endeavours, Inquisitor.” Adamantus stated flatly. “We feel that you are hiding something.” “I am! I cannot say what or why, we have been through
this before!” The hooded man thumped the table. “We could be here hours
discussing this – just accept that I cannot inform you of our task here.” In the bowels of the ship, Astropath Goldis stood on his podium raised above the troop transport bay. He raised his hands and threw off his hood. His heavily boned features were pallid and tired, but his lips bore a sneer of triumph. His empty eye-sockets lit up with crackling purple energy and he screamed silently as his mind’s call echoed throughout the ship. The robed figures around him screeched in harsh, alien tones, their own hands lifted in exactly the same position as his own. "Brethren! The time is right!” Tarsh fell to his knees, Gorn and Riol rushing to help him. He couldn’t stop it – the throbbing pain in his back grew unbearable, spreading throughout his whole body. Apotheosis. The becoming. He was breaking apart with pain – and yet his twisted mind was pulsing with insane pleasure at the change. He screamed. Gorn and Riol reached him and held his arms. “What the hell’s happening?” Gorn cursed, dragging him toward the door. Tarsh’s pain-glazed eyes rolled around to stare at him. “What is happening is my sacred becoming, human.” Tarsh whispered, his lips rolling back as the fangs pushed out of his gums. With a sound of ripping flesh and tearing cloth the third arm shot out of his shoulder blade; gore splattered over the room as the purple, chitin-encased, muscular limb flexed its clawed hand. The appendage swung down onto Riol’s head, slicing his face apart and continuing to tear him in two. Tarsh’s hands spread open, becoming wider, the fingernails becoming small, stubby claws. His right hand lashed out at Gorn, slamming him across the room. There was a small, soft crack as the man’s back broke. Feynes looked on in shock as the mutant Guardsman staggered toward him, still uncertain how to walk on his newly taloned feet. He raised his lasgun and opened fire. The weapon blasted Tarsh’s armour open to reveal the hideous, chitin structure of his new ribcage. Organs pulsed and throbbed in the cracks as Tarsh leapt forward, grabbing Feynes by the throat and lifting him, then hurling him bodily into the corridor, blood gushing from his jugular vein. Barras backed away, his mouth opening and shutting, breathing raggedly. Tarsh’s face split apart in a warped grin and he jumped over the table. His powerful hands forced Barras against the wall while the third, clawed arm held the Guardsman’s head steady. Tarsh thrust his face up close to the other man. “Join us.” Tarsh said simply. His mouth yawned open and his tongue emerged, the wide, thick muscle extending toward Barras’ face. A needle-thin pincer shot out of the end and pierced the petrified Barras’ brow. The tongue pulsed once before withdrawing into Tarsh’s mouth again. Barras stared into empty space, blood dripping down his nose, breathing heavily. Tarsh let go, stepping away. “Are you with us, brother?” “I… join… you.” Barras picked up his lasgun and
strode out of the room. Tarsh followed him, claws snapping on the metal floor. The chapel door swung open and a hunched, purple-robed figure entered with a strange, shuffling gait. Darius got up and moved to assist the obviously ill man. He reached out to take the man’s arm. Gripping the suspiciously hard flesh, he guided the shape forward. The creature threw off its hood. Underneath was a totally inhuman face, a bestial, slavering monstrosity. Heavily boned, with pink flesh, the bone structure longer and almost insectoid. Darius let go with a shriek, jumping back along the pew. The monster shrugged off its robe and stretched out its arms, all four of them. Two were almost human, albeit with far wider, bonier hands and vestigial claws. The upper arms, sprouting from the shoulders, were longer and tipped with three bone talons each. Its body was leaning forward in a permanent crouch, mostly encased in smooth purple chitin, with a few gaps visible where pink, fleshy organs throbbed slimily. The legs were bent backwards, tipped with more short claws, again chitinous. It threw back its head and screeched, a hoarse sound that no human throat could have made. Gideon looked around in surprise, then his face twisted in shock. “Darius!” he yelled. “Get down!” He pulled his bolt pistol out and fired at the exposed face. The creature dodged with supernatural speed and began to pound down the aisle towards Gideon. He crouched, drawing his combat shortsword. His alien enemy pulled its claws back, then swung them both forward simultaneously in a killing blow. Gideon ducked them narrowly, the two lower claws scratching his scalp, and then lashed upward with the sword. There was a soft splat as the weapon pierced some vital organ and the creature fell back off the weapon, screeching. Darius drew his own pistol and blew a chunk out of its back armour. The monstrosity turned toward him and began to shuffle forward, one hand clutched to its chest. Gideon jumped up and landed on its back, plunging the sword into its innards. He pulled the weapon out of the collapsing course – it was stained with pink blood. Darius stepped out of the pew, shuddering. “What in the name of Dorn is it?” he gasped, taking a closer look at the dead monster. “A Genestealer.” Gideon stared hatefully at it. “One of the most horrific and insidious of all aliens. They infect their host species and turn them into an army of hybrids. This one must have got on when we stopped for supplies on the space station.” “And don’t tell me,” Darius said. “They come in large numbers, right?” “Right. We’re going to the bridge.” Gideon snatched up his powerfist from beside the door and clamped it on. “Why there?” asked Darius as he followed. “Where is the power? Where can they control the ship
from?” Gideon looked around for Darius, who was already running for the lift. Carravar was still in the conference at this time, feeling worried. “Gentlemen, I am perturbed. My powers tell me only of a complete success, with no casualties or losses.” “And that’s bad?” asked the ship’s Captain. “Normally, no, but on a mission of this danger it is
abnormal. I suspect that my abilities are being manipulated by some unseen
power. I must go.” He rose and headed for the door, but then turned back.
“Marshal Dargan, would you care to accompany me back to my quarters? I feel a
little unwell.” The elderly Templar got up and followed him wordlessly. As they headed for the lift, Dargan noticed the lack of Guardsmen in the corridors, and said so. “Curious. You’d expect at least patrols, wouldn’t you? Evidently not.” They turned for the lift. In front of them the doors opened and Gideon and Darius staggered out. Dargan halted them with a raised hand. “What ails you, my brothers?” he asked with a smile. “Bridge… danger… aliens…” Darius panted, trying to catch his breath. “What?” Carravar snapped. “What aliens?” “Genestealers, my lord Inquisitor!” Gideon replied. “They’ve infected at least half the guards, there are dozens of them dead on the lower levels!” “Back to the bridge, quickly!” Carravar turned and
ran, the three Black Templars following in his wake. Tarsh swung his twisted bulk around a corner and sniffed the air, cocking the hand flamer he carried in his one good limb. Behind him Barras was walking slowly, sluggishly. The man’s eyes were glazed with a faint purple glow as he stared muzzily around the corridor. Barras’ mind was afloat on a sea of warm, comforting darkness, the seed implanted in his skull slowly infecting his cells while his mind was reassured by the Brood. It all made sense to him. The Brood was a force for good, it allowed its members to transcend humanity and become part of a greater whole. It was right that things should be this way. Tarsh seemed to hear his thoughts and turned to him, fanged mouth open in a ghastly smile. “You are right, brother. For we are brothers now, unified by a greater purpose. The Brood guides us, nurtures us, makes us its own.” “It… is… so.” Barras managed, his voice thick with mucus and dazed hypnosis. Tarsh threw back his head sharply. "Something comes!” he hissed, levelling the flamer. Gideon, Darius, Carravar and Dargan powered round the corner towards him, robes flapping and armour pounding. Tarsh fired and a short, stubby gout of flame shooting out to envelop Carravar. The Inquisitor screamed and staggered back, robes blazing. Dargan lashed out with his power axe and hit Tarsh’s weapon arm. The Hybrid recoiled, spitting, then his third, clawed arm swept down into the Templar Marshal’s shoulder. The six-inch talons gouged three long holes in the armoured pad and sparks flew as some wire was caught in the wake of the mutated weapon. Gideon ducked Tarsh’s other arm and punched him hard in the stomach, doubling him over. Behind them Barras registered that something was wrong and began to lift his lasgun slowly. Darius threw his knife at the creature, unable to dodge the burning floor panel or the struggling Hybrid. The knife hit home and Barras fell slowly to the floor, still firing. Gideon was attempting to bring his powerfist up for a killing blow, but Tarsh was too fast for the weapon to impact and often gripped it too strongly for it to even move. Dargan was out of the picture, slumped against a wall and clutching his shoulder. Darius couldn’t get to them over the flames and he’d lost his weapon. Gideon slipped over on something and the mutant Tarsh moved in on him. The tongue slid out of his mouth toward Gideon’s face. Try as he might, the Templar looked to be doomed. And then, from nowhere, a laspistol shot blasted into Tarsh’s temple. The Hybrid dropped his helpless prey and looked up. Another shot impacted between the beast’s eyes and it collapsed into a head of viscera. Darius looked around to see Carravar standing behind him. The Inquisitor’s blazing robes had been shrugged off, and underneath the man was wearing carapace armour. In his right hand he held an Imperial hellpistol, an upgraded laspistol with the penetrating power of a boltgun but portable in one hand. Attached to his leg-plate was a long, slender-looking force sword. He still wore the rebreather, the bulky mask seeming much less at odds with the armour. Gideon gratefully accepted his hand. “Thank you, my lord.” Gideon bowed slightly. Carravar’s head tilted slightly to the left. “Just Inquisitor will do right now, Gideon.” His eyes, barely visible inside the helm, were glowing with pride. He turned to Dargan. “Marshal, are you hurt?” “No, Inquisitor. Just a little shaken, that’s all.” Dargan got up. His hands were shaking. ‘Too much, Carravar thought. He hadn’t been expecting this. Hells, neither had I!’ “What in the Emperor’s name was that thing?” asked Darius with a grimace. He bent down and picked up the hand flamer to replace his lost knife. “It was a Hybrid Neophyte, one of those poor souls afflicted with the Genestealer seed. They start off as human ‘Brood Brothers’, normal but utterly loyal to the Genestealer cause. Most develop into creatures like that, but the more intelligent become Acolytes, more human looking. The psychically gifted are the worst affected of all. They either become Acolytes, or worst of all a Magus.” Carravar crossed his arms over his head. “A what?” Darius continued as they moved down the corridor. “A Magus, a humanoid, highly intelligent, psychic figurehead for the Cult. Normally a Magus is the last step in Genestealer evolution, and I suspect that that’s what we’ll find here. But there is another stage. Patriarch. The first Genestealer of the Cult is a Patriarch, psychic and awesomely powerful. They are the most dread of all the Brood’s members, the founder and the protector of their hideous children.” The four men halted outside the bridge bulkhead. It was sealed tight but bore the marks of lasgun blasts and the score of a claw. Darius looked down at the control panel – fused by another lasgun shot. “We can’t get in,” he said despondently. “Darius, when will you learn?” Gideon rebuked. “Sometimes the end does justify the means.” He switched on his powerfist and swung it back. “You must learn to be persistent!” The huge weapon impacted, bending the door inwards but not breaking it. Gideon hauled it back out. “Are we ready?” he asked. “Ready as we’ll ever be.” Dargan replied, unholstering his power axe. Carravar simply nodded as he charged up the hellpistol. Gideon swung again and the doors tore in. They were too late. The bridge was a hundred metres long and vaguely hexagonal, an elongated shape with long walls to the left and right. Ahead a huge external view port window dominated the view, in front of which was the Captain’s chair. High above the Navigator’s cocoon appeared to be activated. All around the room, doors were shut tight, guarded by unrobed Hybrids. Some were humanoid Acolytes with lasguns, some were Neophytes, armed only with vicious fangs and claws. All of them seemed to be immobile, almost asleep on their feet in eerie silence. One interior door was open – the one leading down a ladder to the Tech-Priest’s bay. The bridge was aptly named – for sixty metres down the centre a long chasm was cut into the floor, accessible from the gantry crossing it. Within instruments flashed and winked, oblivious to the carnage on board. Carravar stormed down the room and whirled the Captain’s chair around. The man fell out, dead as stone, a long claw mark across his chest. The Inquisitor turned around and shrugged. The three Templars were halfway along the gantry when they all heard the sound of the cocoon being lowered. About a metre above the ground it halted and swung open, the front swinging down to allow exit to the floor. Inside sat Varion in a magnificent purple, high-collared robe piped and trimmed with orange. In his right hand he held a golden staff taller than he was, topped with a symbol of a four-armed Genestealer. He stared blindly about the room, his empty eye-sockets crackling with lines of purple energy. He seemed to notice them and nodded curtly to the small group of Templars. “You are too late, brothers,” the
Magus began, his lips contorting into a twisted smile. “The Brood has already won. Out Brotherhood is complete with the acquisition of this vessel, a transport to carry our Cult across the stars. We must feed the hunger, protect our sacred children until they are old enough to protect themselves.” His sibilant voice hissed around the huge, silent bridge. “Wrong!” Carravar began, stepping along the gantry toward the monstrosity in the Navigator’s chair. “You have already failed. I am Ordo Malleus, the instrument of righteous redemption. It is my sworn duty to destroy you and your kin wherever I come across them!” “We really don’t think so.” Varian hissed and screeched some hideous sound. The Hybrids at the doors came to life and began to bound towards the bridge. The Magus straightened up and raised its hand. All around the room, the doors unjammed and purestrain Genestealers began to swarm into the bridge. Varian laughed, a screeching, alien sound in the sudden hissing noise of the bridge. As he threw back his limbs in the bizarre celebration, the Genestealers paused and joined his spasmodic cry of victory. The Templars moved into action. Dargan bellowed at the top of his voice the vow of service that all Templars undertook. “Be Pure in Mind, Body and Soul, my brothers!” He swung the power axe over and over, running straight for the enthroned Magus. Gideon jumped the crevasse and landed amidst the Hybrid Neophytes rushing for the bridges, powerfist describing a bloody arc in the air as Hybrid after Hybrid was crushed to pulp or sent screaming into the chasm. Darius reloaded the hand flamer and ran for the opposite end of the bridge, blazing fuel igniting the creatures that tried to rush him, buying time for Dargan. Carravar stood aside him, hellpistol blazing into the masses, pulverising heads and torsos among the squirming horde. Dargan now stood before the Magus, axe whirring through the air. Varian languidly gestured with his hand and lightning shot from his fingers, blasting the old Marshal backwards into a console on the far side of the room. Still the arcs of destruction powered into Dargan, burning his hair away and scorching great sheet of ceramite off his armour. The Marshal hauled himself up slowly, trying to fight the pressure, gradually pushing up the console. Varian’s eye-sockets narrowed and he raised the other hand in a stabbing gesture, intensifying the storm of energy about Dargan. With agonising slowness Dargan gasped out his last words. “Suffer… not… the… unclean… to… live!” he
managed, and brought his fist down hard on the alarm panel. All over the ship, Black
Templars threw off their enemies and began to storm their way toward the bridge,
ignoring the hail of lasgun fire that spattered off their power armour. In
groups of two or three, they ascended the bridge tower and ran into the chamber,
weapons blazing, joining the righteous vengeance. The Magus stood triumphant now in his cocoon, his deranged laughter echoing about the battlefield. Darius had long since exhausted his supply of flamer fuel and was now going hand-to-hand with an Acolyte, using the useless weapon as a club. Gideon swung onto the gantry and brained the creature with a single blow to the skull. “These monsters aren’t so hard!” he laughed, shooting another through the face. “You think so, master?” Darius retorted, accepting the
spare pistol Gideon handed him. “Take a look at the one Carravar’s
fighting!” The Inquisitor stepped along the gantry, his gun empty, his force sword drawn. Varian slowly descended from the cocoon, his hollow face alight with hatred. The sword crackled blue in the fading emergency lighting. Carravar stopped three paces away and spat at the Magus’ feet. Varian looked him up and down, and then he raised the staff. Carravar fell to the floor, his mouth open in a silent scream. A thousand high, alien voices shrieked in his mind, the psychic scream of a Genestealer Magus. He got to his feet, shaking his head. “I will not fail! It is my duty!” he shouted, swinging the sword up to catch the Magus a glancing blow. Varian turned and ran for the door, his bulky robe slowing him down. Carravar followed, the sword held out and ready. He saw his enemy turn, angle its head and spit a huge glob of acid through the air. Carravar’s hand closed around something that rested on the walkway rail. It was Dargan’s power axe. He brought the weapon around to parry as the ball of fire sped at him, and knocked it flying back into Varian’s face. The Magus collapsed, clawing at his face. Carravar jumped to land atop him, both his weapons cleaving into the swollen skull of the creature. Varian died screaming, his high voice reverberating around and around the bridge. The Genestealers scattered, caught between the death of their leader and the incoming Templars. Still the screaming went on, and another, lower sound joined it. The door to the Tech-Priest’s pit swung open, and the Patriarch slithered out, screeching in rage and hate. A Genestealer obviously in appearance, but more upright, taller, bulkier, a huge pot belly hanging over its armoured legs. Four mighty arms clenched about it as it stomped along the gantry, intent on consumption of everything in its path. The huge beast batted Carravar’s axe callously aside and was about to crush him with one great taloned foot when Gideon was moved into action. He charged down the gantry and leapt into the air, landing on the monstrous Genestealer’s chitinous back. The powerfist swung down in a glittering arc of energy and hit home with a sickening crunch. The Patriarch screeched again, this time in pain. It thrust its arms back spasmodically, hurling Gideon back into the door it had emerged from. The Templar, dazed and confused, pushed himself semi-upright in the wreckage. Carravar was lying, semi-conscious, at the other end of the gantry. Darius, paralysed with fear and unarmed, would be no help. The Patriarch towered over him, dripping mucus from pointed bones that stuck out of its skin, its reeking breath filling his senses, its fanged mouth grimacing as its arms lowered to finish him off. It glared hatefully into Gideon’s eyes – and something looked back, expanding in a whirl of light. Gideon’s vision blurred, and he seemed to hear the voice of Aryani in his head. “I have one more task to perform…” the Eldar whispered. And then Gideon realised that Aryani wasn’t in his mind, he was there in front of him, shielding him from the huge enemy. Translucent and dulled in colour, but there, singing spear in his hand, crouched and ready to strike. The Genestealer’s eyes bulged as it tried to focus on this new opponent. Aryani’s shade slowly began to fade as the singing spear rose inexorably toward the bulbous head, but the colours of the spearhead grew brighter and it seemed to solidify, coruscating with blue sparks. The Genestealer’s eyes widened in terror – and then it struck. Aryani disappeared entirely; the spearhead pierced the Patriarch’s skull with a muffled splat and it fell back, roaring. Aryani’s voice echoed around the bridge one last time. “Remember me…” Three other Templars were making their way down the bridge toward the corpse of the Patriarch and the slowly recovering Gideon when they heard the alarm. The alarm signifying the ship-wide fires. The fires that it was now impossible to put out. The three Marines turned and ran for it as the computers began to blaze. Darius snapped out of his terrified trance and ran to his master’s side. “It must have been the battles down below!” he shouted, slapping Gideon back into reality. “They’ve shorted out the damage control systems!” Gideon hauled himself upright and took in the scene around him. The huge viewscreen was flashing with the words HULL INTEGRITY 53% AND FALLING, accompanied by the computer’s voice. “We’re breaking up!” he whispered. 49% AND FALLING, said the viewscreen. They began to run down the gantry, stopping next to Carravar. “He’s alive!” Darius said, kneeling down to check
his pulse. “We’ve got to get him out of here!” Gideon wordlessly hauled
the Inquisitor onto his shoulder and they headed for the door. 45% AND FALLING. Carravar came round in the lift, still on Gideon’s shoulder. He looked at the lift console. 41% AND FALLING. He shook his head muzzily. “We have to get to Shuttlebay Three,” he said. “My ship’s docked there, if we hurry we stand a chance!” Gideon remembered his dream of the night before. “You need to be freed from your Chapter for a time.” Darius looked across at him from his position slumped on the other side of the lift. “Master, I’ve just thought. That creature, that Magus – it called us brothers.” Gideon was about to reply when Carravar pre-empted him. “A different kind of brotherhood, Darius, from yours, a
brotherhood of evil and decadence. Remember what Dargan said – be pure in
mind, body and soul. You and Gideon belong to the greatest and purest
brotherhood of all. Humanity. A brotherhood, that Varian, like the fool he was,
relinquished.” Darius seemed satisfied, touching the control to open the lift
doors. The computer voice was saying, “HULL INTEGRITY 38% AND FALLING” when they reached the shuttlebay. All around them Guardsmen were running for shuttles and escape pods. Noticeably there were no Black Templars. “Your brother Marines,” said Carravar, stepping out of the lift. “They’d rather stay here and die than live to fight another day.” “Better to die fighting than to live fleeing!” Gideon cursed at him. “That or they’ve already run off! Use your head, Gideon.” Carravar retorted. “You can either run now and carry on your mission, or you can die and let Chaos make the next move without warning. You’re the only hope if Khastarax comes back.” “Which one’s your shuttle?” asked Darius, following them and pulling a bolter and clip out of their wall mount. Carravar gestured to the long, dagger-shaped spaceship on the left, in midnight blue metal and emblazoned with the logo of the Inquisition. He held out a remote control and the loading ramp slowly hissed down. “HULL INTEGRITY 33% AND FALLING. ABANDON SHIP!” said the computer voice with something more urgency. Burning fragments were falling from the roof now, and through the plastic viewing panels in the floor Darius could see the flames blazing across the lower deck. “The fire’s almost here-” he began to say, but was
cut short as a huge column of flame burst from the floor. “HULL INTEGRITY 24%
AND FALLING. ABANDON SHIP.” They rushed up the ramp in
a tight huddle, Carravar hitting the control to raise the ramp. As they reached
the tiny cockpit the Inquisitor hurled himself into the pilot’s seat and,
ignoring all the checks, all the regulations, all the common sense, he pulled on
the ignition lever. Darius jumped into the scanner and comm.-link chair, Gideon
made for the tiny weapons bank. “HULL INTEGRITY 16% AND FALLING. SHIP COLLAPSE
IN THIRTY SECONDS AND COUNTING. ABANDON SHIP.” Slowly, ponderously, the slender shuttlecraft raised
itself from the floor. Carravar’s hand tightened on the pad that controlled
the thrusters and it began to turn for the exit. “HULL INTEGRITY 9% AND
FALLING. COLLAPSE IN TEN SECONDS.” Carravar pushed the lever forward and the Inquisition
transport powered out of the docking bay. As it flew out of the blazing hole,
from behind they heard the words, “HULL INTEGRITY 2% AND FALLING. 1%. 0…” The Absolution died, the fires that roared
throughout the scout cruiser splitting its shell apart. The engine block
exploded in a silent blossom of flame, the bridge shot up into space and the
rest of the ship simply collapsed into a thousand lumps of burning steel. The
tiny, sleek transport flew away from the wreckage, leaving the escape pods and
other shuttles behind. It turned, inexorably, and faced deeper into the Ymgarl
Purgatus Zone, and then it sped into the darkness. THIS IS NOT THE END… OR IS IT?
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