Festum Gladius Chapter 21

Smyth's shoulder absorbed the recoil of his Mark II bolt rifle with ease, the familiar kick effortlessly compensated for by his genhanced frame. A single round soared from the end of his rifle, spinning in the air as the micro-rocket spat flames behind it. The bolt round was perfectly aimed and intercepted a spinning clay disc in midair. The impact sent out the sound of smashed pottery as the disc exploded, the detonation of the round a second later almost an afterthought since the target was already obliterated. Another disc flew high, only to be shot down by a single round and another and another. Thirty discs hurled into the air in the space of six seconds, via the medium of a blind servitor. Smyth saw them all and fired smoothly, shifting from target to target with exacting precision. Thirty discs went up, thirty shots were fired and at the end only one lasted long enough to touch the rock of the ground.

Smyth ejected his spent magazine with a grimace. He'd missed one, that was unacceptable. The remaining target spun upon the ground, taunting him with its survival. The plate rolled in a clatter of pottery towards him, only to be stopped when Smyth shattered it with his boot. Cursing his poor showing Smyth looked about the range, seeing Astartes attending to their morning Firing Rites. In long lanes Space Marines practised their targeting accuracy, blowing clay discs from the air with consummate ease. All those Storm Heralds on the planet whose duties were not pressing were here. The air shuddered with the hammering of traditional Godwyn-pattern bolters and the echoing boom of the newer Mark II Bolt rifles, the two breeds of Transhuman wielding their weapons with unearthly accuracy. Ferrocrete divisions separated each shooter, baffling the noise but still the hammering was astonishingly loud. Yet even with his helm doffed Smyth was not troubled, he was gene-bred for war and the deafening clamour of battle was not a problem.

What did trouble him was the fact that some cheeky bastard had rigged up a shot counter. A wizened cleric with an abacus built into his chest and mechanical callipers for fingers constantly adding to the total as his fishbowl glassic eyelenses tracked every shot. Perhaps it had been meant to inspire a healthy competition between the Brothers, and in less acrimonious times it may have done so, but in the current atmosphere all it had done was to drive a wedge between the new and the old Space Marines. Smyth didn't like the way that everybody paused between volleys to check the tally but what truly rankled was that the Firstborn stood at nineteen thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three hits while the Primaris held at a mere nineteen thousand, seven hundred and eighty-two. Smyth's missed shot had put them one behind.

Angrily Smyth reached for his belt pouches but came up empty. Annoyed he turned and stomped back to the magazine racks, snatching up a fresh cartridge and checking the clip within. There was a soft chuckle beside him, "What's grinding your gears?"

Smyth glanced over and saw Brother Swata standing by the rack, Primaris drivers no exception to the firing rites. Sullenly Smyth sniffed, "I missed one."

"That's a blow but it doesn't explain your rancour," Swata said, "What's really the matter?"

"Everything," Smyth muttered mostly to himself.

Swata nodded, "I heard there's been an incident with the Feast of Blades. Some form of attack. Gossip has it a few Champions died."

"Huh," Smyth snorted dismissively, not caring for baseless rumours.

Swata however was just warming up, "I heard the Excoriators lost a Champion and are blaming the Emperor's Shadows for his death. The Mentor Legion is baying for the blood of the Charnel Guard and the Storm Giants have sworn blood vengeance on the Storm Heralds."

Smyth paused then and asked, "What have they got against us?"

"No idea, maybe they don't like how similar our names are."

Smyth shook his head and scoffed, "Scurrilous rumours, pay no mind. Concentrate on your firing rites. We're one behind and need to catch up."

Swata however looked over the range and whispered, "Smug bastards, acting like they're better than us. Obsolete fossils, locked into moribund tactical doctrines and decrepit rituals. The Primaris should have replaced them wholesale, not this phased introduction the Captains are insisting upon."

Smyth cast his eye along the line and agreed, "No argument here, they are the past we are the future. Soon they will all fall in battle and there will be only Primaris left in the galaxy."

"Too slow," Swata hissed, "We shouldn't wait for them to pass."

Smyth's eyes snapped about as he snapped, "What's that supposed to mean?!"

Swata held up his hands and said, "I merely say what we all know to be true. First Captain Jemiel was sent to keep an eye on this wretched Chapter and we've seen nothing to convince us the Firstborn deserve their reprieve. One word from Lord Guilliman and we can place Jemiel upon the throne of the Chapter Master."

Smyth's jaw fell at the mutinous sentiment, he had no idea the Primaris' rank and file expected, nay wanted conflict to ignite. For a moment he was catapulted back to his duel with Orath and he remembered how the veteran had insisted strife was inevitable. He had told himself it was the bitter tirade of a sour soul, the last gasp of defiance before the end of his time. Now it seemed the feeling among the Primaris was mutual and he didn't know whether to be glad or horrified.

Thankfully he was saved from answering as his vox chirped, "Lieutenant Smyth, report to the Chapter Master's offices at once." Smyth departed the firing ranges immediately, casting once last worried glance at Swata's back. He left the Storm Heralds to their practice and made a swift march across the Fortress-Monastery, passing serfs working under the growing heat of the day. At a glance all was well but Smyth was worried that this was but the calm before the hurricane, the tension was growing and it was only a matter of time until something happened that could not be brushed aside. Fortuitously the firing ranges were only a few kilometres from the Chapter Master's minaret and within a half-hour he was jogging through the waiting door. An Honour Guard gestured him into a grav-lift and he was whisked up the length of the tower, arriving at the penultimate level in seconds. He emerged into a fine ante-chamber but was brought up short when he saw he was not the first to arrive.

Sergeant Orath stomped about, his Terminator armour dominating the room as he growled, "You... what are you doing here?"

Smyth stepped out of the grav-lift with a snapped, "I was summoned. What are you doing here?"

Orath's exposed face filled with rancour as he spat, "I was also summoned."

Smyth was brought up short as he spluttered, "You don't think this is about our duel?"

"What duel?" Orath retorted, "Oh, you mean our training sparring. If you consider that a duel then I weep for your sword's spirit, to be owned by so soft a warrior."

"Use that piece of gristle between your ears," Smyth snapped, "If we're both here then..."

Suddenly the door swung open and a voice summoned them. Smyth swallowed nervously as he stepped within and found the masters waiting. Chapter Master Phalros, First Captain Jemiel, Tenth-Captain Nimodes and a Firstborn Librarian he didn't recognise, all sitting around a table. Smyth made the sign of the cog and was gestured to sit down. He moved to obey but saw Orath standing proud, his Terminator armour unyielding and unable to sit. If Orath was standing he would not sit, it was a matter of pride and Smyth refused to be lesser than the Terminator.

Phalros must have noted this for he swiftly covered, "Thank you for coming so promptly Brothers. This is an emergency session of council."

Nimodes muttered, "Any more emergencies and we shall have to make it a permanent session."

Phalros ignored that as he said, "There is a secret matter we need to discuss with you."

Orath cut in, "If its the discontent with the newcomers don't bother, we know about it."

Jemiel rapped the table and said, "Show respect! Does nobody in this misbegotten Chapter show respect?!"

Orath retorted, "You trust me to kill Heretics, not speak pretty words. Tell me who you want dead and I'll show my respects on the battlefield."

Phalros waved his hand and said, "Your weapon is not required but your blunt tongue and forceful attitude is. There has been an event... of the most troubling nature."

"The Feast?" Smyth guessed.

Phalros sighed, "That is a separate matter, this is another issue entirely."

"We have problems coming out of our ears," Nimodes sighed.

Phalros continued, "Word has come from the Forges of a tragedy unfolding. Our most revered and venerable Dreadnought has lost his mind. Honourable Ajax broke out of the cryo-vaults, slaughtered several Brothers and numerous serfs and then fled into the depths of the island. I know this is shocking news but it is undeniable: Ajax has gone insane, he has become a threat to every one of us."

Smyth heard Orath gasp, "No... not Ajax. It can't be true."

The Primaris chewed his lip for a moment then ventured, "I met him once, he seemed... volatile. No, worse than that, he seemed powder keg about to go off at any moment. I assumed it was warrior fury but you say his mind is gone."

Suddenly the Librarian broke his silence to say, "Ajax's mind fell to ruins centuries ago, but we were able to manage his senility. The Librarians and the Techmarines worked together to keep him focused and angry, rage lent him clarity. Though recently it has been more a matter of pointing him at an enemy and letting him run wild."

Pharlos' head swivelled as he barked, "You knew of his deterioration Wela?!"

"As did you," Wela replied calmly, "Pretend not that you didn't see his lapses and rages. You knew Ajax was breaking under the weight of ages, you knew his days were numbered."

Phalros sank back and confessed, "It is true, Ajax has been erratic of late. But I put it down to Dreadnought fatigue. All our ancients suffer during prolonged times out of stasis. Ajax has been very active over the last few decades, I thought he had overextended himself, but it was the symptoms of a deeper malaise."

Smyth guessed, "So you want us to hunt him down and end him?"

"Kill Ajax?!" Orath gasped, "No, you can't... he's... he's Ajax!"

"I share your concerns," Phalros said, "But no. The Techmarines assure me kill-teams probe the depths, equipped to bring him down once and for all. He must be terminated before he breaks for the surface and disgraces us before the Feast of Blades. His madness is the last thing this debacle needs."

Jemiel leaned in to say, "Your presence is required to assist a full-scale investigation of the Techmarine Sodality. We intend to prize open those doors and shine a light into their darkest corners."

Orath gasped, "Ajax is run amok and you summoned us to... to poke about in the Forges?!"

"I can't believe I agree with him but Orath is right," Smyth protested, "This seems a poor use of our skills."

"Your skills are mine to commit as I will!" Phalros snapped irately, "This is an issue that has long festered too long. Our Captains have accepted our new Priamris brethren wholeheartedly. The Librarians as well, Echeb keeps them on a short leash. The Chaplains and Apothecaries are still rebuilding so there was no collective voice to protest but the Techmarines... they dig in their heels at every turn. Stalling, evading and prevaricating any way they can. They refuse to bend to my will and the will of our Gene-father. Until today I had no reason to think they were anything but hidebound reactionaries, but this madness shows they have gone too far. I will not tolerate the Techmarine's defiance a day longer, they are not a separate order but a humble division of this Chapter! You will accompany Librarian Wela into the Forges and remind the Sodality they are answerable to me. Strip out their secrets, expose whatever they are hiding and make sure they know I am the Chapter Master of the Storm Heralds!"

Smyth gulped in shock and asked, "But why us?"

Jemiel answered, "You have shown a knack for ferreting out secrets. Your investigation into the traitor Megaro reflects well on your skills and your Martian training will let you understand what you see in the Forges. Sergeant Orath..."

Nimodes filled in, "Orath's there to smash heads in, if anyone get ideas of speaking back to you."

Orath snorted, "I can do that."

Phalros continued, "Librarian Wela will be leading this investigation. Officially you are there to report on how Ajax broke free, but unofficially I want you to turn over every rock and find out what the hell the Techmarines are playing at. And do it quietly, I want no word of this to reach the Feast, not with everything else we have to contend with. Speak to no one of this, that is a direct order."

Smyth could do nothing but acquiesce. He saluted crisply but in his hearts he was nervous. He was about to venture into the Forges, the secret enclave of the Cult Mechanicus in the heart of the Chapter. Even on mars the Primaris Marines had not seen anything save the meanest glimpse of the Cult Technis' power and he knew he was going to see wonders and horrors in equal measure. It was a marvel undreamt of, if only he didn't have to do it side by side with Orath. The Mechanicus' secrets were dangerous to know and one or the other of them may well not come back, but then if Orath didn't come back he wouldn't mind that at all. Who knows, maybe Orath would fall down a hole and be lost forever, that would be a welcome reprieve from his bile. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all, Smyth thought to himself.