Memory and Fate
Chapter 1: Distress and Arrival
"Am I ready to die for my Emperor? Perhaps not, traitor, but I am very much ready to kill for him." -Malchus, 3rd Captain, Dereon Primus
Chapter 1 Part 1: A New Course
-x-
Solomon places the quill down next to the inkwell in a sulk of trivial frustration, parchment stained with crossed out sentences and semi-formed ideas constituting half a standard days' worth of progress. Sighing in dissatisfaction at himself, the Librarian rises from his baroque throne, dress robes fluttering in the incense-laden air. Turning around brings the Epistolary face-to-face with the Librarium of the Battle Barge Sinai. Starting down a great set of metal steps, Solomon descends to the seventh level of the complex.
At the heart of most Fortress-Monasteries and Battle Barges of the Adeptus Astartes, lay the vast repositories of knowledge known as the Librarium. Within are the collected records of every deed ever done by the Chapter as well as more hazardous items of mystic lore. At the epicenter is a chamber filled with trophies taken from both xenos and heretical adversaries, a practice which causes no end of chafing among the Ecclesiarchs.
The Ashen Heralds are no different in this practice, yet what they do with this knowledge is very much so. For every Librarium owned is almost completely open for every Brother, the rank and file Neophytes and Scouts allowed almost as much access as the upper echelons of the Chapter's commanders. Aside from the innermost confines reserved for the Lorekeepers and most revered artifacts, all are welcome to learn of the history of the Chapter.
"Those who do not learn from their past are condemned to repeat it, even more so within our brotherhood"
The mystical cadence of Loremaster Herodotus filters into Solomon's memory, the very first day he had lain eyes upon the great Librarium at Shekinah. While not as expansive as that small hive of parchment and data-slates, the Sinai was the third eldest ship in the entire fleet.
A thick, central supporting pillar protrudes up out of the floor and upsurges ten stories high towards the distant ceiling. Carved with intricate stonework up to the sixth level, the inordinately thick pillar shows the continuing march of history as a procession depicting seminal events the Battle Barge had taken part in. The Haloris Cleansings, the defeat of the Plague Sorcerer Pathis Rot-Lord, the Battle off the Durandelian asteroid belt, the Tragedy of the 262nd Ionian Infantries' betrayal, the Dereon Crusade. Every victory, defeat, watershed, and atrocity marched its way up the solid stone in bas-relief.
At its zenith rests an ancient copy of the Codex Astartes, not the oldest or the largest, but revered nonetheless. Ten circular layers each with ten antechambers beneath are filled to the brim with data-slates, great leather-bound tomes, carved mnemo-stones, works of art or relics held in illustrious stasis cases, and even hololithic projectors depicting images gleaned from battle recordings with accompanying oral testaments from those who had endured through them.
Cherubim, servitors, and Serf-scribes rush and buzz throughout the hundred branching antechambers carrying various fragments of knowledge for whatever task the other librarians have assigned. Battle-Brothers perusing the last words of great heroes or the tactics employed in fierce engagements made their presence known as well, deskbound at great tables with piled masses of lore surrounding them. However, what drew Solomon's eye was the sole Librarian wading through the coursing river of parchment and bodies.
Carrying a veritable bale of scrolls in the crook of one arm, his robes shuffling in a hurried fashion. Codicier Malachi Sintanus had not borne the title for long since his days as a Lexicanum. Only a decade prior was he elevated in a ceremony before the Loremaster himself and outfitted with his rudimentary psychic implants. Despite his ascension the former novice was taking his newfound responsibility in stride, or at least as much as he could muster.
He was encircled by a gaggle of scribes and Cherubim, many coalescing before being sent away on whatever errand the Librarium needed tending to. Papers, data-slates, and even the odd artifact brought for a close inspection changed hands in a frenetic pace as the Codicier belted out order after order. Solomon felt a little sorry for the youth, it seems that no matter how high one rose in their personal Brotherhood, the dreaded specter of paperwork would always hound them.
"Malachi, I see you are as industrious as ever" Solomon falls into step with the younger Librarian, Malachi not pausing in his orderings. After a long moment the olive-skinned Levantine deigned to gaze upon his superior.
"And I see you are as untroubled as usual, Epistolary." A Cherubim flew away with a roll of faded scrolls in its minuscule fingers "Tell me, how goes writing your magnum opus?" the sarcasm present in the phrase 'magnum opus' is almost palpable.
Sparing a sidelong glance at the Codicier, the Epistolary sighs in defeat "Alright I deserved that…not very well if you must ask."
A scribe brings a data-slate up as far as her arms can reach, the younger Librarian marking off a digital signature "And the fact you have deigned to seek me out for anything other than attending to your duties implies you wish to examine…it again."
Raising a hand melodramatically to his chest, Solomon does a mock bow "As always Malachi, you have cut through the skeins of fate to the heart of the issue" Then the cheerful demeanor plunges and re-ascends in an instant, sparks dancing ever-so-slightly from the stormy eyes, his voice a rumbling whisper "But a little more respect is due of one's superiors, boy, even if their observations are accurate."
"I have my comicalities, but disrespect me once more at your own peril."
The psychic missive and accompanying blanch of the Codicier's aura assures Solomon that the message has been duly received. Excusing the few remaining Serfs, Malachi veers toward another set of stairs down to the sixth level. Into one of the great antechambers lies a sealed metal door painted with an orange stripe. Security doors across the Librarium detained those artifacts not enough of a hazard to be housed in the Librarius, yet were either not safe enough or too misunderstood to be openly accessed.
"Forgive me my earlier impertinence Solomon, but I have to ask, what do you think will have changed?'
"Nothing, probably"
Malachi blinks twice at the plain response "Then why- "
"Because I believe I was the one to find it for a reason." Solomon responds with a ponderous visage, Malachi's brow furrowing in concern "It sat there undisturbed for millennia, and it just so happens that I was the first psyker it reached out to-?" The Epistolary sucked in a calming lungful "-I…delved into the Emperor's Tarot with the Loremaster on my last visit to Shekinah."
Malachi's eyebrows shot up
"The Emperor drawn right side up, The Shattered World, and finally…the Great Eye." Leaning against the wall near the security door, Solomon glances over at the intrigued Librarian "Hope, discovery and warp travel; a war against the forces of the Archenemy, yet the central divination eludes me in its connotations."
"You think yourself predestined for something?" Malachi intones, leaning against the opposite side of the wall
"Perhaps…although providence is known as quite the capricious thing, no?" Silence stretches on for the next few moments as both Librarians ruminate. Malachi breaks the stillness with a small wave of a hand towards the security door. Nodding in accord, Solomon makes his way over to a panel on the left side of the large entrance.
An identical panel is bolted onto the wall near Malachi. The panels are squares with giant handprints inset, signifying their status as reserved for Astartes. Placing both of their hands into the recessed prints activates a humming chime. After a few moments of whirring light and inscrutable technological sound the door slides open.
"A group of Scouts is scheduled for their lessons and I must collect the precise tomes, I will be on my way now." Malachi steps away with a slight inclination of the head before returning to the main Librarium pathways.
Solomon mumbles out a half-hearted acknowledgment, already striding into the chamber. Flipping a switch brings the intense lights of several lumen-globes to bear. A collection of low lying cases, for an Astartes at least, are arranged several rows some meters deep. Solomon proceeds through the central row to observe the recovered artifacts.
Chrome-plated canisters of varying sizes branded with marques of an inscrutable dead language fill many of the covered tables, sealed behind thick transparisteel plates. In others are archaic weapons of some kind. Pistols resembling an old auto-type composed of some unidentified alloy, half-assembled, along with blades made of comparable materials take up one entire row. Coming to one of the cases, Solomon opens a metal flap and punches in a five-digit code. With a hiss of air, the case is unsealed. The canister Solomon has chosen to inspect is about as tall and as wide as his armored boot.
The top is sealed with a clear transparisteel-like substance. Within is housed several kilos of a sandy red powder that microscopy has shown to have a crystalline appearance. Other powders of several different colors fill similarly shaped canisters. In some of the thinner containers rest large and complete crystals that appear to be the similar substances based on color and texture. However, all the examples held in storage whether powdered or not are utterly inert.
"It's almost comical that something such as this could drive the Techmarines up the wall."
Neither fire or electricity, pressure or acid, had resulted in any kind of conventional reaction. Chemical analysis raised more questions than answers when it seemed that it had no apparent chemical structure, simply pure…matter, for lack of a better word. It had been the first time he had seen the 4th's head artificers so completely vexed, almost apoplectic in hindsight. It was then that the Librarians had a crack at it.
What was found had been truly surprising
The crystals were psycho-reactive, to a certain degree. Channeling their power through the crystals drew out a low hum alongside a slight glow that only psykers could perceive. Despite this accomplishment, it was as far as the Librarians had gotten. Beyond some psycho-vibrational currents running through the crystals the mystery remained. Placing the canister back and sealing the case, Solomon looked to the far wall and a lone pedestal.
It was confined in a double-sealed case consisting of six-digit code alongside biometric scanners. A stasis field hummed inside, all particles within suspended in time until deactivation. Entering the code and submitting a sample of his DNA to the sensors opens that case in a whir of tiny gears and dissipating energy. The human fist sized pocket watch lied on a plush pillow.
It was truly a marvelous piece of crafted art. The millennia of disregard did not seem to have left a single mark on the object, and it shone as if it had been polished just yesterday. Carved into the steely gray outer surface, inlaid with white gold, was a complex symbol made up of several gears.
His unarmored thumb pressed against an almost invisibly discreet clasp, and the watch flipped open. Inside was a master crafted chronometer powered by dozens of miniscule gears. Alongside a beautifully hand-crafted physical clock face was a smaller digital display. But the most fascinating aspect of the watch was the crystal at the center of the clockwork. Shining with bright enigmatic flashes of light, it was the apparent power source for the ancient timepiece. This crystal, unlike the others, was fully psycho-reactive
The telltale signature of whatever had called to him was still imprinted upon the watch ever-so-slightly even after all those years ago.
"Who are you?"
Solomon's query received no reply as the Librarian beheld the bauble in his hands.
"Esteemed Epistolary!" A psychic blurb slipped its way into Solomon's focus. The voice was still young and unsure of itself, the hallmark of a Lexicanum. "The Captains have called a full council and request your presence."
Solomon sighs and places the watch back in stasis, "very well Nathaniel, tell them I shall be there shortly."
"They also wish for you to collect Champion Judah on the way, he is performing an induction now."
"I will, thank you Nathaniel." Making to leave the chamber, Solomon takes on last wistful look at the timepiece before sealing the door once again.
-x-
The initiate kneels in the center of the chamber, clad in nothing but a grey robe concealing a freshly formed black mass. The black mass was pockmarked with numerous holes from which metal plugs protruded. Less than a week before, he had undergone the final surgeries to receive both the black carapace and the progenoid glands, the gene-seed which allows for the creation of new Space Marines.
His eyes are set upon the ground, he is at peace. Around him swirls wafting clouds of incense and candle smoke that wreathe around him like a crown. A lone circle of light is all that separates him from the unnaturally darkened portion of the chamber. Not a sound can be heard.
The measured steps of an armored form wades through the void and reaches his transhuman ears.
Out of instinct the initiate tenses, his hearts beat ever so slightly faster. Fear and excitement pervade the prospective Astartes for a moment before the training drilled and indoctrinated into him reasserts itself. The footsteps nearly reach him before sharply turning to walk a circle around the supplicant initiate. Around and around the footsteps unhurriedly circle the initiate. It is on the fourth such pass that the footsteps finally abate.
The silence has returned once again. It is somehow deafening now. Time seems to fall away for the initiate until a singularly powerful voice breaches the veil.
"Speak your name"
The voice is solemn yet carries a weight of authority that threatens to crush the young initiate's spirit outright. Yet the initiate is calm once again and this time there is no surprise or hesitation.
A reply devoid of fear returns the query "Philetus, my Lord."
"And why do you believe you are here, Philetus?"
"To become a full Battle-Brother and serve the Chapter with honor"
"No"
The curt retort nearly breaks the initiate's composure but the training kicks in as intended
"You are here to be judged, and should I find you wanting, you shall never leave this room alive. I will not insult you by questioning your loyalty, the trials have seen to that."
The footsteps start up again, creeping just outside the edge of the initiate's form
"One question, no more no less, will I ask of you" The footsteps pause "And only one truthful answer shall see you from this chamber with your head held high-or without it if you fail." The figure leans in "Are you prepared?"
"Yes"
The unsheathing of a great blade echoes throughout the chamber, the Champion now looms over him like a great war-titan
"Are you prepared to suffer for the Imperium and this Chapter?"
Philetus's back stiffens at the portentous yet somehow far-away tone the Champion now takes with him
"Philetus, are you prepared to die? Horribly? Roaring in agony as the horrors of this galaxy unveil themselves?"
"Are you prepared to be torn to shreds by Dark Eldar as their malefic weapons show you pain you cannot comprehend?"
"Are you prepared to see your Brothers in arms fall, betrayed by those whose allegiances you had never questioned?"
"Are you prepared for the mind-shattering reality that is the Archenemy of Mankind toying with your soul like a mortal child's doll?"
"And finally, are you prepared to die unremembered, deeds forgotten by a thankless Imperium and only known to a thousand of your chosen brethren in the halls of Shekinah"?
Philetus and the Champion now came face-to-helmet for the first time. The initiate gazes deep into the vermillion lenses and even without glancing the eyes themselves he could just about make out the truly gaunt expression lying on the centuries old face. Philetus lets out a breath of air he didn't know he had been holding in. He gazes inward at himself, and then back to the leering helm of the champion before finally steeling his nerves.
"Yes"
The answer comes out with a sense of certainty and serenity that precludes all doubts of its sincerity. The Champion stands upright, parchment adornments quavering in the smoke and incense. He raises the sword.
Philetus closes his eyes in supplication, bowing his head. Yet there is no sense of failure in the expression on his face, merely a serene mask of acceptance. A whistle through the air signals the blade's final approach.
…
He opens his eyes seconds after the mighty power blade would have surely ended his life. Before him the Champion holds the blade in both hands, tip on the stone below.
"Fear is human, confronting that fear is what makes us more than human." Judah bows his head to the kneeling Astartes "You are ready."
"Indeed, he is." came a reply from the darkness
The Champion inclines his head into the darkness, the light from lumen globes and auto-torches filtering back in. The chamber is revealed as the light finally reaches its apex. A grand cathedral surrounds them.
Pillars depicting figures of graceful and haunting beauty surround them, skull faced angels back to back, each holding a flaming lantern that burnt a regal blue. A great depiction of an armored figure adorned with a concealing shroud was carved and sat at the front of the chamber, surrounded by hundreds of candles. Towering above even that statue was an enormous icon of the Emperor triumphant atop a hill of daemons. There were no benches or resting places within the chambers' vast confines, a Space Marine must stand before his Emperor's gaze with pride, not stoop as a burdened servant.
Across the towering walls were mighty stained-glass windows depicting great victories of both the Chapter and the Imperium. On the walls however were far darker murals of the cleansing of cultists, and the annihilation of Traitor Marine warbands by burning angelic figures. Lamentations of hate pervaded these numerous murals, each espousing vile insult towards a patron god, daemon, or certain traitors. Beneath the beauty of the Cathedral lay undercurrents of an inextinguishable fury.
The chamber was empty of all but the two Brothers, except for one other individual. His armor was a muted, dusty black contrasted by the haunting scowl of a bone-white skull helmet. While other Brothers in the Chapter had seals and scrolls aplenty, his scripture held an air of palpable solemnity. A tome every Marine knew carried the names of the dead who had served in the 4th was chained to the left pauldron. Other purity seals and scrolls attached carried the names of many other martyrs the Chapter had fought with over the centuries.
Chaplain Orestes was not just a record-keeper, he was an icon of inspiration and righteous fury. Across his armor ran painted flames ringed with inscriptions reviling every single aspect about the Archenemy, engraved figures of Traitors writhed in tormented horror among flames. Two blazing torches rose from the backpack, somewhat muted now, but in battle they would glow like newborn stars. His Crozius Arcanum was a snarling skull-faced gargoyle with bat-like wings, eyes as inset orange jewels. Nearby to the altar he stood at was a mobile armor rack holding a set of polished Aquila war-plate.
A rough yet poetic intonation, like that of a great pipe organ, sounds forth from behind the forbidding helm, "Come here, Philetus, and take your oath." Philetus rises reverently from his supplication and makes his way to the altar beneath the shrouded figure. Bowing his head to the Chaplain, the skull-faced Marine begins a recitation.
"Philetus, you who have been chosen to join the brotherhood that is the Ashen Heralds-" The Crozius is held before Philetus, its snarling gargoyle caressing the crown of his head "-Do you accept all the rights and charges that our ancient brotherhood entails?"
"I do"
"Do you swear to honor the Emperor, protect His Imperium, and fight as one of His Angels of Death?"
"I swear"
"Do you swear to bring death and cleansing flame to all who have turned from His light?"
"I swear"
"Do you swear to uphold the sacred duties of this Chapter, preserve its history, and honor your forefathers?"
"I swear" the Crozius leaves his head
"Look at me"
Philetus raises his head and gazes straight into eyes like burning Phosphex
"Serve the Emperor"
"For He is our father"
"But He is no god"
"He is the greatest of men"
"Hate the traitor"
"For they have tainted His vision"
"The Heresy has not ended"
"Until the last Traitor lives no more"
The Chaplain turns and beckons behind the altar for a moment. Two Serf-scribes heft a massive tome toward the two Astartes, its cover an intricate depiction of the Chapter's heraldry. The two place a portable lectern on the ground before opening the great tome with speed and grace practiced over a life of servitude to their transhuman masters. Eventually they come to a blank space in the tome.
"Sign your name." Philetus is handed an ornate auto-quill.
A few swift strokes later and the tome closes with a weighty *thwap*. Bowing, the Serfs step back into the darkness. Judah gazes back towards his newfound Brother and inclines his head.
"Sergeant Olus will have need of you, your skill with a blade even as a Scout was impressive."
Philetus bows his head "I am honored, Champion."
Judah inclines his head with a touch more reverence "Go well, and Philetus - "
The newly anointed Brother bows his head in thanks "-good luck"
The hopeful expression set on Philetus's face nearly brings a smile to the Champion's.
"Brother Philetus, you shall bring your new armor to the Techmarines for your ceremonial arming before your induction into Olu's squad." Philetus, still basking in the Champion's words steps towards the mobile armor rack.
"Ah!" The harshly anointed Marine holds a hand up before the Brother can reach the armor "When I say you shall bring the armor to them, I should have been more specific."
The Chaplain makes his way towards the rack, and lowers the armor to the ground with a press of a button, hydraulics groaning.
"You are going to carry it to the Armorium."
Judah's last sight of Philetus is a nearly flabbergasted expression looking back from the Chaplain and to his new war-plate. Shaking his head in nostalgic mirth, Judah exits the cathedral proper. Stepping out into the grand corridor in front of the cathedral reveals a robed figure leaning against a wall.
"You know, the recruitment trials I've directed with that man are certainly brutal, but this is just cruel." the figure chuckles for a moment "They always assume that the Chaplain's approval means it's over." Already the sounds of creaking metal and grunts of exertion could be overheard as the cathedral disappears behind them.
"Compared to what Priam did to terrify inductees beforehand, Arrikain, I am quite agreeable." Judah retorts
The chuckle now becomes a full-bodied laugh "That word does not belong in the same sentence describing that Marine's pupil my friend."
"Hmph, He told me you were the most infuriating inductee he had ever met in all of his centuries, I'm starting to remember why."
"Ha-ha yes, I recall that well…although Chaplain Pontus breaking my arm when I tried to levitate my armor to the forge stands out more for me." The two share another laugh before Solomon notices the slight dip in Judah's mood. "Ah, I should let you know that a general council briefing has been called in the war-room and we are expected."
-x-
Solomon sits down at the large throne at the circular command table. Besides him is the still-armored Champion. Captains Malchus and Immanuel sit two seats ahead of them at the head of the table near a large window gazing out into the void. Company Chaplains and Techmarines, Apothecaries and Ancients take a seat at the many thrones available. The table is massive enough to cover half of the massive house-sized war room chamber and seat dozens more Astartes than are already present. In the center of the table is a patch of raised ground holding a massive hololithic projection system. Nearby, servitors fused into consoles maintain the data-flow of the war-room.
4th Captain Immanuel is the pinnacle stereotype of the duty-bound warriors Space Marines are portrayed as in almost every way. His dour, baldheaded features are marred by numerous scars and three service studs denoting centuries of hard-fought victories. A scar crosses deeply over his left eye, replaced by a red-lensed cybernetic replacement. Even in dress robes the Captain appears an unshakable bastion, towering a good foot over the rest of his brethren. Looking over the collection of Astartes before him, Immanuel observes the last few that trickle in.
Malchus of the 3rd is the previous Captain's opposite in nearly every way. He had nearly flawless skin in terms of scarring, along with a crop of thick brown hair cut into a short mohawk. Tattooed lines of script flowed across his scalp and towards the back of his head. There was a more energetic quality to him that only youth could provide, and he was one of the youngest here. But behind the façade of youth, the eyes hid a calculating vicious streak, he was not unblemished for lack of experience. The younger Captain filed through a data-slate before the last members of the council finally sat down.
Immanuel spoke first, voice hoarse and deep after a lifetime of barking commands and battle-cry "I call this briefing to order, in the name of the Emperor. "
"In the name of the Father." came the booming reply of all present. Captain Malchus toyed with the slate for a few more moments, pressing a button on the table. The hololithic projector whirred to life as it displayed a shaky image of a solar system, slowly stabilizing into a coherent picture.
Malchus's comparatively suave voice sounded out next. "Chapter Command has issued a commendation for our swift purges, the Sarelon system has received further pacification reinforcements from the Astra Militarum." The image of Sarelon's many Hives came into focus, showing an animated time lapse of a once-serious cult rebellion being ground to nothing. The 3rd and 4th Companies along with elements of the reserve Companies had cleansed most of the hives within mere hours. Immanuel nods in ascension, zooming back out to the solar scale.
"Now on to the second item on our agenda, we have received an unusual request of assistance from the Adeptus Mechanicus."
Malchus's relaxed visage faded into one of slight concern, working the controls of the hololithic projector. "Chapter Command routed us a message from Archmagos-Explorator Karina about the status of her excursion." A jerky image starts to come into focus "It is at the end, for this Magos is quite- "*sigh* "-forthcoming."
At this new revelation Solomon perked up, leaning inwards toward the table and drawing a side-eyed grunt from the elder Captain. Changing from the image of a solar system, a hologram of a robed Techpriest appeared shakily on the screen.
Countless mechadendrites protruded from the Archmagos, many ending in inscrutable devices as well as grasping appendages. Three quarters of her face were taken up by angular cybernetic replacements, a cluster of ocular lenses replacing her eye alongside rasping metallic mandibles. Fine red robes obscured the rest of her body, but the outlines underneath indicated substantial augmentation. Her voice was tinny and over-filtered through the Vox-speaker embedded in her throat.
"Astartes Designate: Ashen Heralds, greetings once again. It has been approximately twenty point zero-four standard years since our last contact on planet Designate: Verdas."
She spoke in short bursts of stilted Low Gothic, clearly unused to speaking in anything but Lingua Technis. "Decoded star-map proved extremely accurate with only a six-point nine percent error rate. Location within Segmentum Pacificus previously problematic for exploration. Nebulas shrouded warp-routes."
Karina's voice descended in pitch, several clicking noises sound forth "Alloys continually defies classification. Crystalline substance defies classification. Several Adepts driven to madness." The Archmagos's head jerks up, ocular lenses refocusing.
"Complication with fleet. Ship Designate: Eternal Quest on scheduled excursion route Sigma point nine ceased routine updates approximately two standard weeks ago. Attempts at reestablishing regular contact failed. Received distress signal alongside message. Contents of message…concerning."
The image of the Archmagos disappeared, replaced with a spectrogram. Jerky digital sounds can be overheard as the message slowly builds in pitch. Alarms blare in the background. The message was full of static interference alongside patches of dead air.
"Magos Callidon transmitting*KSHHH* reached inner system in-possible signs of habitation *KSHHH* xenos attack-it was alive! *KSHHH* appeared out of nowhere- boarders detected on multiple decks-send aid-!"
The message faded out in a growling mass of indecipherable sounds fused with static interference. The image of the spectrograph faded once more into that of the Archmagos.
"Primary purpose of message: alert Astartes regarding possible hostile xenos incursion. Secondary purpose: request retrieval or secure salvage site of Eternal Quest. Message cease, may the Omnissiah bless you." As the hololithic image faded out the chamber descended into light whispers for a moment before Malchus spoke once again.
"While the Chapter does not take orders from the Mechanicus, the descriptions given in the message are quite concerning." Malchus scanned the faces of those assembled, many nodded in unanimity "The mentions of 'living ships' is noteworthy, it could mean we are dealing with some new xenos threat; furthermore, time is of the essence and we are the closest battle-ready Imperial elements."
Immanuel looks to his Brother-Captain and nods in affirmation. "As such, Chapter command has ordered our fleet to follow the route taken by the Eternal Quest to its last known position." Malchus then alters his gaze towards the lone Epistolary present, a long-winded sigh issuing forth. "It appears we will be playing the part of the Explorer after all, Lorekeeper."
Solomon merely smirks
"Indeed"
-x-
Chapter 1 Part 2: Boarders
In the moments leading to a ship's exit from the warp, realspace itself physically ruptures. It bulges outwards in a bubble of reality that is then slowly pushed aside by the incoming vessel.
Then like all bubbles, it eventually bursts
The Sinai and its accompanying escorts spew forth from a roiling purplish maelstrom, lightning arcing off the outer surface of the Gellar Fields. The stabilized hole in the fabric of reality seals itself shut moments later with a sickening crack, the sound somehow audible even in hard vacuum. Moments later, great plasma engine thrusters propel the assembled craft forward through the void and towards the inner system.
The bridge is a hive of activity in the immediate aftermath of the Warp transition. In front of the command throne is a lowered area consisting of over a dozen rows of terminals. Legless servitors, appendages shuffling with machine-like efficiency, are fused to great banks of data cogitators. Serfs, whether arms-men or bridge crew scan the various screens for any encroaching objects or potential threats. A scant few Astartes man key stations in command pulpits, directing the actions of their bondsmen. All the activity on the bridge is overseen by the gaunt figure plugged into his massive command throne.
Elhanan is an exceedingly old Marine, pushing over eight hundred years. What little hair he has left is bleach-white in coloration. His skin crisscrossed with deep and noticeable wrinkles that not even the noble vitality of the Astartes can halt. No longer able to fight, Elhanan is permanently melded to the command throne, wires and medical equipment tracing a course through his highly cyberized body. Dozens of plugs are socketed into his skull, his eyes long ago replaced with a multitude of lensed oculi. Yet this matters little to the ancient Astartes.
For most of his many centuries Elhanan has been the Shipmaster of the Sinai. Plucked out of his company by the will of his long-dead predecessor and mentor, this Battle Barge has become the sole focus of the ancient Astartes. Many say that the two are one in the same after so long wired to one another.
With tactical data filtering in from the Mind-to-Ship link provided by the throne, his antediluvian yet somewhat mechanical declaration echoes through the chamber.
"Primary Augury sweep completed, system mapping in progress." Several hours later, the elder Marine's eyes twitch wildly as new data floods into his brain.
"Two outer Gas Giant class worlds, four rocky planets in inner system separated from Gas Giants by Asteroid Belt…Wait…" The connection feed goes wild as the Augur arrays detect an anomaly. "Signal and signature detected matching Explorator vessel Eternal Quest at one and a half Terran AUs from current position, raising engine power by forty percent, estimated travel time…two and a half standard weeks." The blueish glow of the engines shifts to more white coloration as the flotilla hurtles towards the inner system.
-x-
"This is not very heartening."
The Mechanicus Explorator Vessel had been roughly sheared off at the bow, the front section slowly rotating sideways in relation to the main hulk of the ship. Off in the distance, a field of irregular asteroids slowly tumbled in the void, some bearing telltale signs of recent macrocannon impact. Besides the bow, there seemed to be no outward signs of damage whatsoever along the length of the hull. Its engines were lifeless, few if any lights whatsoever could be seen onboard.
"Still no reply?" Immanuel inclined his head down at the Techmarine working the communications array.
"Nothing Brother-Captain, only the automated distress signal."
"Then send in the Boarding Squads."
-x-
The metal turns an intense red for a singular moment before an armored prow demolishes its way inside. The craft punctures deep into the outer hull of the Eternal Quest, leaving a trail of destruction in its' wake. Screaming superheated metal crumples like tissue paper. Massive retro-rockets burn white hot to slow the craft down, until it finally skids to a halt. Anti-Gravitic plates spring to life, the Mechanicus hangar spacious enough for the craft to hover inside. After sweeping its' prow's mounted weapons across the disorganized floor of the hangar, the dual-pronged craft settles down.
Not even a second afterwards ten heavily armed Marines burst out of the Caestus Assault Ram, its Magna-Melta still glowing. Forming a perimeter with drilled efficiency, three quickly break off and redeploy down a long side corridor. No ingress is unaccounted for, no blind corner is unchecked, the laser-like focus of the Astartes sweeps the imposing chamber for contacts.
The Ashen Heralds have always been a fleet-based Chapter, their ships just as much their dwellings as instruments of war. Being fleet-based puts taxing new requirements on top of the standard duties of the Adeptus Astartes. While following the Codex Astartes' core tenets is paramount, sometimes necessity outweighs tradition.
The Boarding Squad is such a deviation developed after centuries of boarding and counter-boarding operations. Every member of most companies is trained to be a part of one of these specialist units should the need arise. Members of Tactical Squads, Assault Squads, and even some Devastator Marines are pulled from the line and merged under an experienced Sergeant into a single ten-man unit. They are then trained as a second squad away from their previous squads.
Each Marine not holding a weapon requiring two hands is given a Boarding Shield, a type of power shield used by the ancient Astartes Legions. Its power field is not as potent as a Storm Shield, yet its protective capabilities are superb in close combat boarding operations.
The Marines are also given weapons designed especially for close combat such as flamers, bolters, chainswords, even storm bolters. Along with weapons designed to pierce through bulkheads including lascutters and Melta weaponry, Grav-guns in some scenarios. Echoing the ancient Breacher Siege Squads from the Great Crusade, they are trained for the hellishly cramped conditions boarding an enemy vessel required.
A light turns green within the helmet's HUD.
"Auspex sweep completed, no signs of movement."
A modulated voice hailed over the vox "This is Techmarine Uriah, I have reached the emergency hangar controls, attempting power reset"
"Acknowledged" the vox clicks to a second channel "This is Olus to Sinai, hangar clear."
"Understood, second phase in process, proceed with caution."
"Understood"
Sergeant Olus scans the mangled hangar's airless, pitch-black interior. Paneling and loose wires are apparent everywhere, holes and burns from the more exotic weapons fielded by the Mechanicus Skitarii decorate much of the walls. The lack of any signals or life signs from inside are now made less mysterious.
The hangar is a veritable lake of dried blood, machine oil, and broken corpses. Skitarii and servitors litter the floor in mangled heaps of flesh and bent metal. Claw marks score the floors just as much as they have cleaved apart the fallen bodies surrounding the Boarding Squad. Shuttlecraft and other Mechanicus void capable ships sit un-deployed in mechanical cradles or are otherwise marred with weapons fire and claw marks. Olus notices a problem almost immediately.
"Where are the bodies?"
"Which bodies?"
The voice is young, the recruit that had joined his regular Assault Squad a scant few weeks ago.
"These are not mere Naval Arms-men, they were Skitarii, where are the bodies of the attackers?"
Gazing around the hangar, the Squad sees no non-Mechanicus corpses.
A pall of tensioned silence descends over the squad as a further scan of their area reveals the observation of their Sergeant to be true. Other than the corpses and claw marks, the enemy has left nothing, not even blood. Before Olus can ponder on what this means, the great cog-toothed doors to the hangar slide open noiselessly in the vacuum, sucking what little atmosphere was left out into the void. Uriah voxes over a brief report indicating success. Dim emergency lights flickering on provide little illumination, fortunately a non-issue to technology and Astartes eyes.
Through the now open doors, a Thunderhawk glides in for a landing among the debris. The front ramp drops open and disgorges thirty more Marines alongside grimacing servo-skulls. Putting aside this troubling quandary the Sergeant moves to rendezvous with the rest of the Boarding Squads.
-x-
The path to the bridge was strewn with even more dismembered corpses and wrecked Skitarii. At one point the oil became so thick that it went up to where their sabatons met their greaves. Yet the observation made in the hangar was repeated wherever the Boarding squad went. No corpses of the enemies that had boarded this ship were encountered. What was more troubling was the lack of contact.
Crew Quarters, Enginarium, Macrocannon Deck, all had been swept by the other squads. Skull probes making their way throughout the derelict's less important and narrower sections only revealed more of the same. They had only confirmed the lack of enemy dead, making Olus even more concerned at the fate of this vessel. Even if they had retrieved their dead, would they go as far to cleanse the whole vessel of their blood? Why leave the ship after they had secured it? The multitude of unknowns aside, progress had been ahead of projected timetables.
The corridor the squad now traverses grows steadily more choked up with the bodies of the defenders. In front of an ornate door inscribed with many icons of the Machine God was the last stand of an unfortunate group of Skitarii. Barricades and auto turrets seemed to be of no use to the cyborgs holding this chokepoint. Although, the amount of burns from weapons fire up and down the corridors leading to the door combined with the lack of corpses obfuscated a true scope of what had happened.
"It seems the lascutters will be unnecessary."
The door had been twisted inward, a multitude of claw marks marring the once pristine surface. A few well-placed kicks from power armored feet gradually widened the entrance enough for two Astartes to enter in at once. Spreading into and throughout the bridge, the squad came face to face with another anomaly.
Several dead servitors and Skitarii littered the bridge's floor, but there were far fewer corpses here than in other areas of the ship. The bridge was eerily empty of any other signs of previous habitation. Empty seats, even an empty command throne still trailing connecting wires only exacerbated the mystery. Fanning out into the various rows of terminals and crew stations, the Boarding Squad searched for any more physical clues as to what had transpired here, yet found nothing.
"Uriah, try to access the ship's main cogitator logs and see if you can't divine something about the nature of this enemy."
"At once." The Techmarine went to work on the Mechanicus command throne, plugging in several mechadendrite tendrils tipped with data input spikes. As the tech specialist interfaces with the machine spirits of the vessel, Olus decided to properly examine one of the corpses.
Despite the advanced Skitarii War-Plate adorning its once functioning body, many deep lacerations and bite wounds stab down into the vital components that not even these cyborgs could live without. Its Galvanic Rifle lays hacked to pieces to the side, barrel still charred from multiple repeated firings. Olus pulls apart the cleaved flesh and metal, gazing at the edges and markings left by the claws. No matter the strength of the defenders it seemed they were pulled down by sheer weight of numbers. Only questions seemed to linger on this derelict.
I would assume those at fault were those infernal Genestealers that infested Space hulks, but where is their blood, their bodies? Why butcher the crew and then leave? What were they aft-Olus's head shoots up, scanning the room twice over. His voice comes out hushed.
"The Techpriests"
Olus gets on the vox instantly "To all squads, report any sightings of Techpriest dead". Minutes pass.
"Beta reporting, a few in the crew quarters, even then only lower Adepts."
"Gamma reporting, none on the gun deck."
"Delta reporting, there are several in the Enginarium but far less than is expected of the Mechanicus."
A grim realization comes over the scattered squads as they realize the true scope of their findings. Olus turns to the rest of his assemble Marines, "Whatever assaulted this ship is not only strong enough to overpower a Mechanicus crew, but also intelligent enough to see the Techpriests as an asset."
"Sergeant, I've found something." Uriah unplugs himself from the command console "While the emergency power is making data retrieval problematic, I was able to retrieve security logs off local drives, footage is corrupted unfortunately."
"What does it say?"
"Apparently while doing a routine survey of the Asteroid Belt, they were struck by a large one."
"The damage to the bow?"
"Yes" Uriah continues "The first reports of boarders came soon afterwards."
Olus was puzzled, "Where is the asteroid's debris? We saw nothing from the outside."
The green light inside all the Marine's helmets turn orange. Within microseconds, shields and weapons are readied for action. Asupexes show movement near their position. The lights quickly turn to red as the contacts register as *UNKNOWN* on HUDs across the squad. They record at the maximum range of fifty meters yet the corridors behind them are clear.
"Squad Alpha reporting contacts closing." His voice is cold and focused
Signals pinging from the other squads report more of the same. Then the skull probes go silent one by one.
"Sinai, we have contact."
They were at thirty meters now, and yet the corridor remained barren. Unfortunately, one does not outwit a Space Marine easily. Charging up towards the contacts, Olus barks out an order "Xenos in the ducts, heavy flamer!"
Storming into the corridor through the bent door, a Marine armed with the weapon spews a torrent of baleful promethium into the circulation vents on the ceiling. Like pulling the pin from a frag grenade, the battle Olus just knew was coming begins. From the grated cover, dark figures fall trailing blazing fire and roaring in agony. The incandescent beasts illuminate the once darkened hallways with their burning forms. Then their brethren come tumbling out of the vents.
Pitch-black hairless bodies that appear covered in viscous, amorphous machine oil. Pallid misshapen plates of bone covering eyeless faces, and an unhuman needle-fanged maw. Long ambiguously humanoid arms ending in five razor sharp claws, mirrored by thick legs giving them a vaguely bipedal gait. The closest beast makes to roar out a challenge.
Its head is blown to pieces by a bolt round before it could suck in the air
A hail of rounds from both bolters and other specialized weapons spew forth from behind the imposing tower shields' firing ports of the Boarding Squad. The blips of red then turn into a solid wall, roars echoing throughout the superstructure of the Explorator Vessel. Olus idly takes in the fact that the bodies of the slain begin to dissolve for an iota of time before he leads a charge through the wrecked carcasses of the beasts.
"Fighting retreat back to the hangar!"
All slackness the lack of contact may have brought on is wiped away as the boarders position themselves around and behind their Sergeant. Formations drilled into them by years of training and years of war come to life in an instant as a plethora of the clawed beasts burst from more vents around them.
Marines equipped with boarding shields form up in a rough rectangular mass charging through the corridors, watchful on all sides. They defend the brothers in the center of the formation deprived of the shields due to their weaponry. Beasts rush in from every hallway, from every conceivable orifice the vessel to assail the Boarding Squad, yet they are hard-pressed to find purchase. Many beasts thinking themselves clever by attacking from above are swatted from the air by melee weapons or blasted apart by heavy weapons.
They attack in waves, a group of creatures assail the shield wall, all the while their numbers fall to Storm Bolters while charging down the corridors and even those that reach the wall are harried by Chainswords. Those that reach the shields are thrusted back, giving those brothers with heavy flamers and Multi-Meltas an opening to fill a corridor with promethium or fusion-powered thermal death. Grav-guns collapse and contort the Plasteel walls of hallways as well they pulp the organs of the swarming xenos.
Uriah sounds off, Combi-Flamer searing the face off an ambitious xenos, Omnissian power axe bisecting another
"Five hundred meters to hangar."
The squad passes a large emergency blast door. The rearmost brother puts his fist through a panel and throws down the security lever. Screaming metal and sliding gears send the sectional dividing door to the floor. Two brothers unsling lascutters, sealing the door to the floor to alleviate the pressure. Within moments they are on the move once again, the tide of xenos already crashing against the door. Unfortunately, by the sound of popping hatches and roars deeper within the ship, this section is also infested.
The squad does not slow down for an instant. The motionless corpses around them give a dark example about the weight of numbers outdoing advanced technology. But they are Astartes, not Skitarii. They do not give these beasts a chance.
Xenos are blown to pieces by mass-reactive shells. Perforated with searing plasma, or set alight by belching Flamers. They are sliced to bits by chainswords and torn apart by Olu's power fist. The Boarding Squads carve a path out and through the tide of flesh being thrown at them, enduring the few pitiful swipes that make it past the shields. The ceramite and plasteel masterwork that is Power Armor leaves rending slashes that hacked through Skitarii as gouges that barely penetrate the outer layer.
A fresh wave of xenos arises from the front, this time with a larger best in its center. Even more misshapen as its oily brethren, it stands a good head over its kin. Pale bone-like armor runs in jagged splotches over what appear to be vital areas to the creature. Charging through its lesser brethren, it screams towards the line It proves to be more threating than the mass of lower xenos surrounding it.
It takes two blows of the power fist to fell it
Olus clears the way forward, the trampled and dissipating remains fading into view and under the other onrushing xenos. The staccato of heavy bolter fire can now be heard from the chambers ahead. The telltale whoosh of superheated air that could only be the melta weapon attached to the Ram gives an even more precise indication. From a large opening ahead, flashes of light strobe, revealing menacing shadows of clawed xenos rushing past the door.
Olus announces the squad's presence by batting aside three of the creatures with his power fist, sending their shattered forms sailing into the air. In front of the Thunderhawk's traversing bolters, a shield wall of reserve defenders held the xenos at bay. Carving a path through the beasts, Olus's squad fluidly joins the line, adding their own weapons fire. Standing shoulder to shoulder with another Sergeant, Olus scans over the assembled Marines. The reports of the numerous swiveling bolters are so close that vox is the only way to communicate.
Lysippus is laying down a withering hail of fire with his bolt-pistol, power sword severing heads and dismembering limbs "What of the status of Gamma and Delta squads?" Olus asks while casually cratering the skull of an ambitious xenos.
"Gamma is caught behind a blast door but is now cutting through." Lysippus tosses a grenade into the horde, the explosion perforating dozens with shrapnel "The passages into the Enginarium are narrow and many; Delta will take time" The shield wall continues laying down fire in the shade of the Thunderhawk, shadows from their weapons fire rising to the massive ceiling.
Over upturned shuttlecraft and mangled frames of the former crew the xenos continue their assault. Their bodies continuously dissolve into clouds of black miasma trampled over by a seemingly endless horde of their compatriots. Gamma squad bursts from one opening into the hangar, one Marine sending a pair of frag grenades down the corridor. The meaty thump and accompanying body parts indicate success.
Scant minutes later Delta squad emerges from another entrance, suitably more battered than the rest. One Marine's leg is perforated with slashes, trailing bright red blood and leaning against another brother. Yet even injured his bolter still pumps out an accurate fusillade of shells. The squad segues into the line. Marines lay down cover fire even as they back into the Thunderhawk, the Magna-Melta of the Assault Ram melting entire lines of xenos.
While the beasts still bray and fling themselves towards the emplaced Astartes, their numbers steadily drop off. What was once a flood turns into a trickle as the hangar falls steadily more silent. A few stragglers are picked off and the attack ceases in its entirety. Smoke still swirling from the barrels of weaponry, the Marines choose not to let this opportunity go to waste. Filing back into their respective transports the Techmarines blast off out of the hangar and through the void.
"Sinai, extraction successful, minimal casualties, no losses."
"Acknowledged, return to bay thirteen and deliver wounded, report for debriefing in- "
The communication director pauses as a warning klaxon splits through the open channel.
"Belay previous orders, return to re-arm and move to combat alert level 1, void combat imminent."
-x-
Solomon clutches a hand to his breast, a gnawing emptiness clawing at his very heart. The scent of smoke and deep, primal fury assails his mind. The bow of the derelict shudders
-x-
It is awake
It is hungry
It slept for so long but finally had purpose
That was good
It heard
It obeyed
It suffered
It slept
More came
It had new purpose
That was good
They hurt it
It hates
It hates
-x-
Due to ancient treaties made in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy, which limited the Space Marines to vessels whose primary role was that of transport and suppression designed to facilitate planetary assault. Only the smallest of vessels would be permitted to act exclusively as warships, ensuring the Space Marines would never present a threat to the Imperial Navy.
As such, Space Marines do not typically seek out naval engagements. But for the fleet-based chapters, such engagements are often unavoidable. Yet even as the bridge crew assembled into ready positions and as the void shields were raised, Elhanan was unbothered in his throne. He was smiling, it wasn't every day he got to fire his guns on anything other than a planet.
And the monstrosity before him was certainly a curious foe.
The shattered bow of the Explorator Vessel had begun gushing a viscous tar-like substance as blood flows from an open wound. Yet even as it flowed it seemed to behave like a gaseous, roiling cloud. As the entity coalesced into being the elder Marine could only grin.
Three pairs of crimson red eyes lined the head of the oblong squid-like creature's body. Great plates of jagged, bone-white armor grew into a demented crest. Long black tendrils numbering in the dozens writhed and twisted with unknown intent. The maw of the beast yawned open into a chasm of stalagmitic teeth, roaring silently in the vacuum. Its tendrils pulsed with fell energy, propelling the monstrosity forward. It was nearly as massive as a Strike Cruiser and could probably snap one of their escorts in half.
It has already lost.
You do not engage a Space Marine vessel in close range combat
"Firing Bombardment Cannons."
Bombardment cannons are dorsal-mounted linear accelerators designed for planetary bombardment. The Magma bombs they use are several times more powerful than standard Navy torpedoes, and are launched at significantly higher speed. In short, a salvo of weaponry designed to punch through a planet's atmosphere are fired at what is basically point-blank range in naval terms.
The beast does not take it well
The salvo reaches the oblong black mass within minutes. It seems that whatever this thing was good for, being fast was not one of them. Fusion warheads punch through the oily outer layer almost pathetically easy and detonate deep in its' guts. It resembles a horrid caricature of a balloon for scant seconds before fire overcomes its entire being. Whatever pantomimic semblance it has for internal organs or blood are flash-boiled by the sheer sunburst of energy detonating within.
When the fire dies down, there is barely anything left. Great charred husks of oily flush slough off the blazing void-beast like great scabs. Its body has been completely cored through as only the lower half still twitches in futile motions. The beast gradually falls still. The thick black fog that once made the beast now unmakes it with little fanfare, dissipating into the void.
"Oh…I was wrong."
Elhanan's withered voice sounds out a truly dissatisfied lament. Several Marines turn towards the ancient Shipmaster.
"I expected it to take at least two salvoes."
-x-
Codex
Recruitment: There are three ways the Ashen Heralds bolster their numbers, the first is the Inquisition approved feudal world of Levantus. The second is by a special class of Chapter Serfs who fight for the right to ascend to the level of their masters. The third and least common is taking a tithe or even chosen humans from the worlds the Ashen Herald's campaigns bring them to.
Lorekeeper: Ashen Heralds term for Librarian. Lorekeepers are much more involved with the day-to-day running of the chapter. Along with assisting in recruitment trials, they teach history and tactics to Neophytes, preparing them for the duty the Chapter has assigned to themselves. Almost all Lorekeepers are recruited from Levantus for their psychic talents to be properly managed, and many keep their last names.
A/N: Any constructive criticism is appreciated.