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Comradeship Darius looked about him in wonder as he was escorted down the corridor. All his life up to this point had been spent in the darkness of the world of Mira, but now the Emperor had chosen him. Chosen him for a place amongst the Black Templars. Darius knew that thirty generations ago the Templars had saved his world and built the Chapter Keep there, but never in his life had he set foot inside. Great, high walls, decorated with banners and trophies from a hundred Crusades. Stained-glass windows depicting Sigismund, the spiritual father of all Templars, or Rogal Dorn, the Primarch whose genes had created them, or even of the Emperor himself. Always the images were of victory, of battle-scarred warriors in black and white winning through against impossible odds. Four years ago he had been implanted by the mysterious warrior-monk who had come to his village seeking out its strongest young warrior for the Emperor’s cause. For four years he had lived in the citadel around the Keep with hundreds of other young hopefuls, all receiving the implants that would make them Space Marines. Many had been turned away, the cowards, the physically and spiritually incompatible. Many more had fallen in training or to the barbaric surgery of the Apothecaries. Now fourteen out of a hundred and thirty had made it. Made the grade to become Black Templar Neophytes. A small man next to the armoured Templars, but a strapping six-footer by normal standards, Darius was eighteen and typical of his age. Short black hair swept back over his scalp in the traditional fashion, with the maximum permitted length of sideburns, the only relic of his old life. His face was heavily boned, with curious, perpetually glancing blue eyes and a natural smile on his thin lips. He was clad in the simple robe and tunic of a Black Templars Neophyte – black with a white lining and a Chapter symbol in white on the chest. Darius’ head snapped upright with a jerk as he saw the bulkhead. His accompanying Templar, a seven-foot giant in black and white power armour, stood to attention before activating the door panel and speaking into it. The bulkhead door shot back with a whirr of hydraulics. Darius’ eyes glimpsed sparse walls, two lockers, and a pair of spartan bedrolls on the floor. But his attention was rooted by the enormous figure that stood looking out of the window. Tall, muscular, with steel-grey hair, clad in a black-and-white robe emblazoned with the crucifix emblem of the Black Templars Chapter, the Marine was a terrifying figure even without his armour, which Darius saw even now in the small armoury-chamber on his left. “Brother Gideon?” the accompanying Templar asked. “I heard you the first time, Malleus,” Gideon replied, turning around and fixing the marine with a vicious stare from eyes the same gunmetal-grey as his hair, “and I was aware I am to be training this young warrior to join us. Thank you, however, for drawing this to my attention. Again.” “Gideon, you know I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but-“ “You know I hate being stuck here. I miss the sound of battle in my ears. Off you go, Malleus, and tell me if anything interesting happens around here.” Without a word, the Templar Malleus left, head bowed. The door chu-chunged shut behind him. “Well now. Your name, Neophyte?” Gideon asked, addressing Darius for the first time. “Darius, sir” he replied, trying to keep the stutter out of his voice. “Darius, brother-Initiate!” Gideon snapped. “This is no Imperial Guard barracks with its ranks and regulations! We are equals, in soul if not in body. How old, Darius, do you think I am?” “I don’t know, brother-Initiate. Perhaps, forty-five, maybe fifty?” “Ha! Treble that and you’ll get your golden figure.” “A hundred and thirty-five?” Darius laughed. “That’s impossible!” “That’s what you think. I have seen nearly one and a half centuries in the service of the Emperor, and I don’t look or feel a day over forty. That is just one of the miracles this brotherhood can offer us, Darius. And I feel that you need to see more. Come.” It was not a request, or even an order. It was a statement of the way the world would be. Darius followed his new master down the corridors of the Chapter Keep, occasionally pausing to ask about this banner or that image. Gideon was ready with answers, but eventually said “Do you never tire of asking questions, Darius?” “My father said if I misunderstood anything, just ask.” “Quite right. ‘Ignorance is the road to failure.” That’s Tactica Imperium, Darius. Chapter Fourteen, Verse three hundred and three.” “I have one more. Where are we going? Brother Malleus said the first thing you would do was show me my duties.” “Bah! He would! I want to find out your mettle first, Darius. Combat first. Duties later.” “Tactica Imperium or Codex Astartes, Brother Gideon?” “Neither. Codex Gideon.” The two Templars came to a halt outside a chamber marked ARMOURY. “Your armour and weapons should be ready now, Darius. We go to collect them.” Several hours later, Darius was clad in the armour of a Neophyte. The armour offered the same protection as Imperial carapace armour, but was far lighter and more flexible. He also carried a bolt pistol and knife strapped to his waist, and a small pouch of frag grenades. Gideon too had retrieved his armour, explaining that, “It was damaged in a battle some time ago and needed re-blessing and repair.” His own power armour was the standard Mark Seven, although he wore no helmet. He too carried grenades and bolt pistol, but on his right arm and sheathing it up to the elbow was a massive power fist. Eventually they turned another corner and came into a small antechamber inhabited by an ageing tech-priest. “Would you be needing the training program, Gideon?” the old man asked. “Or is this a personal test of the armour?” “Both, Ferrus, if you can. This is Neophyte Darius, who may one day be able to address even you as an equal.” “Welcome, my boy, welcome,” Ferrus quavered, giving Darius a surprisingly strong handshake warrior fashion, the other hand placed atop the clenched one. “Perhaps an explanation is needed. On the far side of that door is a hologram simulation of a real combat situation, the difference being that the opponents are chosen by the user or, in your case, by Brother Gideon.” “Can I be hurt in there?” Darius asked, receiving a stinging look from Gideon. “A Templar fears no pain!” Gideon boomed, causing Darius to yelp and leap back in surprise. “But a little flexibility will be allowed for you. For now.” “Your pleasure and pain responses, to battle-lust or injury, remain the same, but you cannot come to harm.” Ferrus stated with a smile. “Good luck, Neophyte, and tell me if Gideon’s armour fails him.” The old man chuckled grimly before tapping out a series of commands on his palm-top control panel. The doors swung open to reveal a forested landscape, a ruined building visible amidst the trees. A calm, mechanical voice stated “Simulation Ready,” and Darius was nudged into the room. “Now then, my brother. Approaching us are three Orks. You must be ready to repel them – they could come at any time, from any direction. Have your weapons ready, thus.” Gideon whirled up his bolt pistol and let loose a barrage of shots. From the trees there was a yell of pain and then two massive humanoids, with green, scar-covered skin, leapt out from the darkness. Darius raised his own gun and fired, revelling in the steady thump in his hand. The Ork took three bullets in the shoulder but carried on running. Gideon yelled to him “Headshots, Neophyte! Headshots!” He raised the weapon further, fired again. This time the Ork went down. Gideon stepped forward and gave the nearest Ork a mighty punch to the lower jaw. The Ork’s head shot clean off and landed between two branches as its body collapsed. From the trees came the one Gideon had wounded. Darius ducked its axe swing and whipped out his knife, stabbing upwards and twisting in the same fluid movement. The Ork screamed and went limp, disappearing as it died, the simulator saving power by not producing dead bodies. Gideon helped him to his feet, and as he did so a rattle of bullets shredded a nearby tree. “You see that ruin? One more in there. Take him!” Darius ran forward in a state of mad frenzy, bolt pistol blazing and taking several chunks out of the stone. Bullets rattled around him as he dodged and weaved through the trees. At ten metres he saw the Ork stand, rest its shoota on the ground and pick something up. He saw the arm swing back, ready to throw what he realised was a krak stikkbomb. He prepared himself for the impact, awaiting the pain Just as its arm shot back, however, the Ork collapsed in a heap as a power fist stove in its skull from behind with a loud WHUMP!, and a splatter of green blood and brains. Gideon stepped out of the shadows. “Foolish, Darius. Just because there is a direct attack route doesn’t mean you should use it.” “Why’d you save me? I had a clear shot, I could have got him before he threw!” Darius panted, leaning onto the building. “And if you hadn’t you’d be dead.” “So? I can’t die here!” “But on a real battlefield you might. And on a real battlefield the enemy aren’t predictable. Death is a good lesson, but comradeship is a better one.” And for the first time since meeting Gideon, Darius saw his master smile.
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