"It is said that the Imperium is founded upon the finest ideals of humanity. I say that to talk of ideals is naiveté. It is a simple fact that the human race is surrounded by those who wish to destroy it. Therefore, they must be destroyed to ensure that they never get the opportunity. Is this honour? No, for we have no right to speak of honour. Is this mercy? No, for we cannot afford mercy. Is this wisdom? Yes, for the grown man knows the environment in which he lives. It is not for us to seek honour or to show mercy, for those are ideals of humanity which I mentioned. We are born of humanity, and yet we are not of humanity, for all of us which is human is left behind. The Chapter is all that matters; for the Chapter was created to serve the Emperor. Forget all else but that."
Brother Captain Jophiel of the Angels of Vengeance Space Marines
"I await your explanation, Interrogator-Chaplain."
It was all Interrogator-Chaplain Arbatel could do not to be intimidated. He had seen Brother-Captain Jophiel's anger before, but by the Emperor, never like this.
And the Captain had good reason to be angry. When he had not received the cue to teleport down with the First Company Terminators, he had become suspicious. Suspicion was soon replaced by anger when he received word that the advance had halted.
"One-hundred and ninety-one of our brothers slain," he said, when the Chaplain did not answer. "Is this the best that Angels of Vengeance can achieve?"
"My Lord," Arbatel had no explanation to offer, but he was honour-bound to try. "Our brothers did their best, as always they do."
"It was not enough!" Jophiel roared, the first real show of the fury within him. "How can justify such losses? Apothecary Mumiah reports that only thirty-two pairs of progenoids were recovered! Thirty-two! This is an utter disaster!"
"Were it not for the Fallen one, my Lord," Arbatel replied, doing his best to hide his own anger, "I would counsel retreat."
"No," Jophiel seemed to calm down. "We must finish this, here and now. When the men are ready, we will attack in force."
"Attack? Arbatel was shocked. "My Lord, we must wait until vehicles can be brought from the Heart of Thunder! We will surely crush them then!"
"We cannot afford to wait," the Captain replied, not looking at Arbatel but staring at a cleared space in what had once been a crossroads. Some of his marines had laid the recovered corpses of their comrades there, so that they could be collected more quickly later. Row upon row of black-armoured bodies lay on the ground, some missing limbs or sometimes even more, blood-spattered and stinking in the afternoon heat.
"As we made orbit, there was a momentary sensor blip on an out-system vector. Shortly afterwards an astrotelepathic communication was received, ordering us out of this system."
"On what authority?" Arbatel was indignant. "They dare to…!"
But he stopped suddenly as Jophiel took an ornate cylindrical canister from his waist. Holding it between his armoured thumb and forefinger, he offered it to the surprised Chaplain. Arbatel took it, opened it, and pulled out a roll of plas-paper, of the sort that a communication might be printed on.
Arbatel's skull-faced helmet hid any emotion as he read the communication. That is, until he saw the seal at the bottom.
His hand trembled, just slightly, but easily visible to Jophiel.
"Now do you understand?" he asked, as Arbatel rolled up the sheet and put it back in the canister. "We have six hours before they are within visual range."
"How?" Arbatel's voice, even masked by his vox-caster, sounded fearful. "How could they possibly know?"
"They have no proof," Jophiel replied, knowing this to be true. He had done the deed himself. "But it would be naïve to think that they would not investigate. If we tarry here a moment longer than necessary, things may become complicated beyond necessity or desire."
"I understand, my Lord." Shocked and cowed, Arbatel bowed his head. "I await your command."
"Send word to the Heart of Thunder," the Captain replied peremptorily. "They are to ready the Thunderhawks to extract us when called. If they receive no communication by the time our guests have entered visual range, then they are to leave immediately."
"I understand, my Lord."
"Then marshal our remaining brethren here. We will attack as soon as they are assembled."
As the Interrogator-Chaplain headed off, Jophiel turned to look up the street, at the other end of which were the Crimson Guardians; the enemy.
He was a magnificent sight. His bone-white Tactical-Dreadnought armour was one of a kind, slightly taller than the usual design, and embellished with rich ornamentation in gold and silver. It had been custom-constructed millennia ago for a great hero of his Chapter, and he had earned it driving Traitor Marines of the Alpha Legion from the Gilead system. In his right hand he carried an enormous power sword, razor sharp and polished to a mirror sheen, highlighting the delicate inlaid circuitry. In his left hand he carried a storm bolter, the double-barrelled relative of the standard boltgun, painstakingly crafted by his Company's artificers.
Jophiel regarded the distant enemy, the setting sun behind him, and planned the attack that would finish this affair once and for all.
Chaplain Yukio surveyed the remains of the Third Company, doing his best to resist despair.
Out of one hundred Crimson Guardians, not counting officers, only thirty-one remained. The rest lay dead in the ruins; beyond retrieval, beyond salvation.
They had sold their lives dearly, of course. The Angels of Vengeance, who sought their deaths for the crime of harbouring a fallen one, had come with three times as many, and yet their advance had stalled. Someone had called the retreat, giving the Crimson Guardians time to consolidate what little they had left.
Yukio could only just see them. Black-armoured specks moving through the rubble, far out of range. Their Thunderhawks had performed magnificently, smashing the Crimson Guardians' vehicles with terrible precision and speed, although three smoking wrecks were testimony that those victories were not without cost.
Cost. That was all that was left, to be a costly victory.
There was no hope of escape. If the Angels of Vengeance attacked again today, and Yukio knew that they would, then the Third Company would surely be overwhelmed. Nothing remained but to make the enemy pay in blood for every step they took, to pay in kind for every Crimson Guardian who fell.
But they would not give up. No matter how many died, the Angels of Vengeance would not retreat. Too much was at stake.
Yukio knew this. He had been there when Adamar had told them the dire secret that the sons of the Lion had been protecting for thousands of years. The Dark Angels and their brethren had no fear of death in the preservation of the secret, for to allow the secret to be revealed would be to risk utter destruction.
He scanned his eyes over the remnants of the Third Company. Terminator Squad Ashitaka was intact, though battle-weary. Squad Harunobu had been completely wiped out, as had Squads Yoshitaka and Kusonoki. Assault Squads Masamori and Tokimune had suffered such high casualties that it was more efficient to simply merge them, though the new squad was under-strength even then. Squad Nobunaga was down to seven marines, having suffered the least of all. Brother-Sergeant Hikaru had brought only four marines back, along with Brother-Sergeant Katsuyori. The Dreadnought Shikanosuke, armour pitted and dented, provided the only heavy firepower.
Hikaru was without his helmet and his face betrayed nothing, but Yukio nonetheless recognised a soul in torment.
It was something all Space Marines had to face sooner or later. The test of faith, the test of sensibility, the test that came from within. Such was the might of a Space Marine that he might all too easily come to believe himself invincible. He might fight for decades, be promoted through the ranks for his skills, lead his men in battle after battle without ever suffering a casualty. In so doing, no matter how well indoctrinated he might be, he would begin to think himself untouchable, above the fate of man.
It was a dangerous way of thinking, despite the importance of maintaining self-confidence, but never more dangerous than when it was finally proved wrong. The self-doubt, the guilt, the fear of failure. All these combined to test faith and commitment. One would never become a true Space Marine until this trial had been overcome.
"What news?" Yukio's reverie was disturbed by a familiar voice. He did not need to look around to know who it was.
"We are all that remains, Brother-Captain" Yukio replied. "I'm sorry Lord, but I fear our cause is hopeless."
"If there is no means of escape," Senshiro replied gravely, " then we fight to the death. If die we must, then let us make them suffer for their victory."
"How is our guest?" It was obvious to whom the Chaplain was referring. Senshiro did not reply, but simply turned to regard the fallen Angel, who was standing off to one side, staring down one of the rubble-strewn streets, his face grim.
"A change has come over him," the Chaplain remarked.
"I know," the Captain replied.
All around them the remnants of the Third Company prepared for the final battle. Marines prepared their weapons and armour, lubricating mechanisms with consecrated oil, wiping dirt, dust and blood away. The air was thick with the smell of battle; blood, sweat, cordite, concrete dust, promethium. Above them, the sun was descending, touching the horizon. Soon the night would come.
For them there would be no dawn.
"We are beginning the final approach, my Lord."
There was no response.
"My Lord?"
"I heard you, Jubelo," came the reply. Although the occupant of the Captain's chair was barely visible, it was hard for Jubelo to look at it. The shadows about the chair seemed to stare back at him whenever he did.
He knew what hid within those shadows. How could he not know? The one who led him and his fellows into battle. The one who could see the Imperium, the universe, for what it really was. The one who would heal the schism.
Yet every time he looked, he was reminded of how little he knew. Even if he could see past those shadows, into the hooded face, would he ever see? Would he ever know?
Did he want to know?
"A considerable risk," commented one of his fellows, though he could not make out who. "To exit the warp so close to that other ship."
"It was necessary, Ishmael," the shadows replied. "We were too close for the Battle-Barge to detect us. They must not know that we are here if we are to succeed."
Jubelo, unable to resist, turned back to the main hologram projector, which showed a representation of the vessel in whose shadow they hid.
It was a battleship of Imperial construction, vast and baroque. Its guns were framed by ornate arches. Upon the ebony prow was mounted a vast aquila. The engines were a distant glow, propelling the enormous construct to its intended destination.
It seemed so vast when compared with their own small craft, which was barely large enough to be warp-capable. It was by skill, luck, and the strange technologies with which it was equipped, that they had managed to avoid detection.
"Jubelo, what of the long-range scanning?" The voice betrayed no emotion, but the threat was obvious. "I did not bring you here to stand and stare."
"Of course…my Lord," Jubelo spluttered, inwardly cursing his weakness, and turned back to his console. On the central screen was the information coming in from the servitors, upon which he and his brethren relied to run most of the ship's functions. Finally the report was complete.
"Decoding complete, my Lord. One of our brethren is down there as you suspected."
"Do they mention a name?"
"Adamar, my Lord."
"Is that all?"
"Not much else is decipherable, my Lord….Forgive me." It was all Jubelo could do not to tremble. He could feel those eyes staring out at him; cold, ancient, pitiless.
"Do not blame yourself Jubelo," came the voice, and Jubelo would have sighed with relief had he not known better. Telepathic communications, even those with relatively little protection, were difficult to intercept at the best of times. Retrieval of them after they had already been sent was even harder, sifting through scattered remnants of thought and emotion.
"There was some sort of psychic disruption going on down there," he went on, nonetheless feeling that he had to offer some explanation. As he turned to look at the chair again, he froze as its occupant stood up and walked purposefully towards him.
The armour was black and ancient, like his, swathed in a white robe. He stood to attention by the console as his Lord stepped up, his entire body trembling inside his armour.
He cursed himself again for his weakness. He had never felt anything like this in the old days, before the destruction of everything he held dear, before Luther. But centuries of wandering the galaxy in shame and desolation had taken its toll. He had been weakened, in mind, soul and body, starved of companionship and spiritual comfort.
That is, until they had found him. Others like himself; victims of treachery, hunted relentlessly by their own kind, his brothers.
"So…this is the Maximillian Protocol we've heard so much about."
"Maximillian Protocol? What is that?" Jubelo had never heard of such a thing.
"Of course…" his Lord replied, with what might have been a laugh. "You've been away for so long. I'm not surprised that you haven't heard of it."
The Maximilian Protocol was a relatively recent addition to the Imperium's arsenal. Named for the Inquisitor who had pioneered it, the Protocol involved using trained psykers to create psychic disruption over a particular area; what communications experts might call 'white noise'. Its use had cost Maximilian the lives of many of the freshly harvested psykers he had requisitioned, along with several of the astropaths needed to focus the power and concentrate the disruption. Experiments conducted later on a far larger scale had cost the lives of hundreds of participants. However, the technique not only made the use of psychic abilities extremely difficult, but also prevented telepathic communications from escaping the affected area. The effects could take some time to wear off.
"May I speak, my Lord?" If he did not voice his feelings now, Jubelo knew, he would only end up voicing them later, in a manner far less amenable.
"Speak then, Jubelo," his Lord replied reasonably, straightening up from the console.
"My Lord…an entire Battle-Barge of our enemies awaits us, yet you would have us risk their wrath for the sake of one individual. I…"
He trailed off as the hooded face to regard him.
"You ask me" it said, after a soul-wrenching pause. "You ask me why."
"My Lord…"
"Perhaps you would have us leave him behind? Another Black Pearl for another pretentious fool who seeks his own salvation through the agony of his own brothers."
"My Lord…"
"Have a care, Jubelo," the voice was as cold as he had ever known it. "I could just as easily have left you to your fate, but I rescued you."
"Yes…my Lord. I apologise for my churlishness."
"You are forgiven, Jubelo," his Lord headed back to the chair. "As all of us shall be; when our task is completed."
(Can you guess who this character is? And who else has turned up to complicate things? I'm sorry if the explanation of the Maximilian Protocol seems ill-timed, but it seemed like a good idea. I will do my best to complete this story soon, and your questions will be answered. Thank you all for reviewing thus far.)
