Diem Infamia Chapter 2
*The Lujan system, 50 light-years from Tectum*
The procession moved across the backdrop of space with serene majesty, heading into the deep void, untroubled and unopposed. A formation of warships, all armed and ready to fight at a moment's notice. They left the oceans of their homeworld behind as they sailed for the nearest jump point, that elusive place where the warp and realspace could be translated between relatively safely.
It was a parade of dignity and honour, proud vessels whose deeds were written in the history of the Storm Heralds. Revered Strike Cruisers such as Legacy of Glory, Million Worlds and the Hundred Centuries rode at the fore while flurries of gunships swept back and forth. Further out roving escort frigates stalked the space lanes, confronting any civilian ship they encountered with threats of violence, unless they stood down and submitted to inspection. Many pilgrim ships and merchantmen were left weeping at the Space Marine's passage but they cared not, today matters of protocol and jurisdiction were left in the dust, for this duty was the most significant they would ever know.
At the heart of the fleet sailed three capital ships, each a queen of warfare. The largest of these was a traditional Battlebarge, the Thunderlord, flagship of the Storm Heralds and chariot of Chapter Master Phalros. Off her dorsal, port flank rode another Battlebarge, somewhat smaller, but subtly enhanced by non-standard technologies. The Cadia Stands, a vessel of the Unnumbered Sons, carrying representatives of the various Chapters serving as part of the Primus fleet of the Indomitus Crusade. Both these ships could have been the heart of their own armada but today they were flying cover for the third ship, a smaller vessel with unusual dimensions and surprising technologies, the Thunderchild.
This formation boasted some twelve hundred Space Marines, a force that could have laid waste to planets and conquered sub-sectors. Only a token guard had been left on Lujan II, sullenly watching over the Fortress Monastery. The Storm Heralds did not usually amass their forces into such flagrant displays of might, but their duty and their honour demanded no less, for they guarded a most singular individual. A fact the Thunderchild's Captain was keenly aware of.
In his personal quarters Third Captain Toran stood rigidly to attention. He was glorious in his blue and grey armour, bedecked with gold embellishments, rank chains and a weighty red cloak. His face was scarred from many battles and he had a fiercely burning red augmetic for a right eye yet he had an expression of cool wisdom and a sharp intellect, one that had served the Chapter well on many occasions. At his hip hung a potent relic blade, the Sword of Thiel, a revered icon as much as a deadly weapon.
Toran had been silent for some minutes, listening to a lengthy monologue with growing exasperation. His face kept a careful expression of patience but he dared to interject, "I assure you, Third Company is equal to the task."
The response was not what he hoped for. Before him two monochrome projections flickered, a pair of Space Marines in armour that put his to shame. The first was Phalros the Pure, Chapter master of the Storm Heralds, bedecked in a mighty suit of artificer armour. He was vox-casting from the Thunderlord, briefing his Captain in detail. The other bore a different hue of blue, that of the renowned Ultramarines, though it was buried under his golden heraldry. He had a stern face and carried a crested helm in one hand while the other sat on the hilt of the legendary Talassarian tempest blade. This was Cato Sicarius, Knight Champion of Macragge and commander of the Victrix Guard, who was vox-casting from the Cadia Stands.
Cato Sicarius' eyes narrowed as he growled, "Do not be glib; you hold the future of the Imperium in your hands."
Toran resisted the urge to grimace at the rebuke; he found Cato Sicarius to be exceedingly irritating and suspected the High Suzerain of Ultramar returned the sentiment. Thankfully Phalros stepped in to say, "Third Company has my full trust, I would stake my life on it."
Testily Cato snapped, "Your lives are not my concern, Roboute Guilliman's is. Why he elected to travel on your aberrant scow is a mystery, he should be on the Cadia Stands, where I can protect him properly."
Toran kept his umbrage at bay with sheer will; he did not want to quarrel over this. The Living Primarch had recently completed a three-day tour of Lujan II, after bringing the Chapter the gift of Primaris reinforcements. Subsequently the Storm Heralds were hastening to deliver him back to his crusade fleet. To everyone's utter surprise the Primarch had declined to travel in the ship he had arrived in and instead chosen to be conveyed by the Thunderchild. Toran had a suspicion as to why that was so, but kept it quiet and stressed, "We are two days from the jump point, then it's a mere fifty light years to Tectum. We should be in the Warp for no more than a day or two."
"Subjectively," Cato spat, "In realpsace that could be up to a week, depending on Empyreal time dilation. A lot can happen in a week."
However Phalros argued, "The Saint Karyl trail is one of the few stable warp routes left following the Noctis Aeterna. Lord Guilliman is as safe on the Thunderchild as he is on any other ship."Toran added, "I speak for every Brother on board when I say we will lay down our lives to protect the Primarch. We would face any opponent and shed our last drop of blood to vouchsafe his life."
Cato didn't sound impressed as he said, "To die is easy, but you may have to do far more than that. The Victrix guard exists solely to ensure the Primarch's survival, he is more than our gene-father, he is the chosen regent of the Emperor. For all intents and purposes Roboute Guilliman is the Imperium, yet he insists on throwing himself into danger. You must guard him from himself and keep him from rushing into peril. Tell me this; would you abandon your allies and leave civilians to die to protect him?"
Toran hadn't even thought about that but Phalros sighed, "I must reluctantly concur, your sole objective must be to protect Lord Guilliman and deliver him to Tectum. Forget glory and honour, his survival is your only goal, other concerns are not secondary, they are non-existent."
Toran bowed to his Master and said, "I understand my lord, it shall be so."
Cato eyed him warily then said, "I have deployed half the Victrix Guard to your ship, I expect to see you at Tectum."
With that the projections dissolved and Toran sighed loudly, rubbing his one eye in weariness. He knew what they said to be true, but he had not enjoyed hearing it. As with everything else involving their gene-father this was nothing like what Toran had expected. The Storm Herald's initial introduction had gone badly and Roboute Guilliman had made it clear he was far from impressed with the troubled Chapter. Now he had this headache to deal with.
There was a sniff from behind him and an insolent voice said, "Laid it on a bit thick, didn't they?"Toran glanced around his quarters and saw his Command Squad standing to one side, between his weapon bench, his workdesk and a covered easel. Six Brothers, his most trusted comrades and confidants. Currently speaking was Novak, the burned Company Champion, whose skill with a sword was matched only by his irreverent wit. He continued, "I mean, we're hardly going to let something happen to our gene-father."
Across from him Chaplain Furion, stood proudly in his Mark III armour and uttered, "Do not underestimate the perils ahead. The warp is dangerous, ships have been lost before without warning."
There was a snort, from Persion, the communication specialist, who said, "This is nothing more than a little jaunt. In a week we'll catch up to the Macragge's Honour and Guilliman will be on his way.
However Furion argued, "There is no such thing as a 'safe' journey through the Warp."
Another voice arose as the scarred Librarian Arvael wondered aloud, "The part that baffles me is, why did the Primarch want to travel with us in the first place?"
Novak grinned as he said, "He and Toran are best friends now, they want to spend some time together."
Toran shook his head and corrected, "Roboute Guilliman is the Imperial Regent and Lord Commander of the Imperium. He is above us all in station and in duty; we are barely a blip on his auspex. You saw the way he brushed past us in the landing bay, not speaking a word before sealing himself in his quarters. We are not his friends; we will never be his friends. He is our supreme commander and he must be ready to sell any of our lives in a heartbeat, if necessary."
Arvael frowned as he said, "So why did he come here?"
It was Brother Jediah, the bloodthirsty savage who muttered, "Reflex shields… he wants the Reflex shields."
Faces started in surprise and Toran confirmed, "Its true, he's had Techmarines and adepts poking through our systems none-stop and delivering reports to him constantly. I think he means to uncover the secret of practical invisibility."
It was then that Lieutenant Smyth spoke up; he was a new face here in more ways than one. Smyth was a Primaris Marine, the new breed of Transhuman and he was so tall that only Furion could match his height. He had arrived a mere two weeks earlier, with the rest of the Primaris reinforcements. Toran had done his best to help him fit in but it was early days and Third Company had not had enough time to gel as a unit. Smyth sounded surprised as he said, "Reflex shields? I wasn't aware you… errr we… had the Omnissiah's blessing to make a ship undetectable."
Furion answered him, "We don't; a certain Magos fitted them some years back, but being a typical Tech-Priest she kept the secret to herself."
Persion elaborated, "Our Techmarines spent years crawling about the emitters arrays, trying to replicate the technology, but it was beyond them. We can't reproduce the Reflex Shields, the blessing of maintenance are the limits of our capability so the Thunderchild is the only ship in our fleet that has them."
"Oh," sighed Smyth sounding disappointed, "Truly, the ways of the Omnissiah are not for us to know. But maybe Lord Guilliman can unlock the mystery."
"I doubt he'll have time," Arvael countered, "He brought his own choir of Astropaths on board and they have been working non-stop. A thousand messages a day are brought to his chambers, more information than I can process. The demands on his attention are staggering."
Furion remarked, "He is running the Imperium and coordinating strategy on a galactic scale. We cannot comprehend the scope of his deliberations."
Toran's mind wandered for a moment, thinking over the last few weeks. Meeting their gene-father had been remarkable, but also harrowing. Toran had learned that the legends surrounding him were just that; legends. Roboute Guilliman was as brilliant, logical, insightful and driven as myth held but he was also fierce, ruthless and aggressive, ultimately more human than Toran had ever expected him to be. Roboute Guilliman was a person, not a legend, one with ideas of his own and passions that ran deep. Toran's right hand drifted to his left wrist, where three gold studs had been set into the inner lining of his vambrace. Each one represented a conversation with the Primarch, a singular moment he would never forget. True, on two of those occasions Guilliman had been trying to destroy Toran and his Chapter, but that in no way diminished their significance. Toran had eventually managed to convince the Primarch that the Storm Heralds were worth slightly more as loyal soldiers than defeated foes but only after the Imperial Regent had broken every bone in his body.
Toran's mind snapped back to reality as he saw Persion poking at his easel and asking, "What's this?"
Toran hastily started and exclaimed, "It's nothing, leave it."
But Persion had already pulled the sheet away to reveal a melange of colours. Everybody's head turned to look and Arvael asked, "Is that… a painting?"
Toran felt a rare flush of embarrassment and he explained, "I have been reading the new Codex Imperialis and its philosophies are most challenging. The Codex Astartes dealt with logistics and warfare, but this new tract ranges over broader topics. It tells us that we must be more than warriors, we must be leaders, diplomats and artists."
"So you thought you'd paint an Ork's innards?" Novak inquired.
Persion frowned as he uttered, "I thought it was the spray of brick dust over a Land Raider's tracks."
Jediah said, "No, it's a blood splatter, fresh from a slit jugular."
Toran had known his old comrades would react like this and sighed, "It's a sunset on Sucaris, do you remember how the evening sky was the deepest red imaginable?"
Furion chewed his lip for a moment before exclaiming, "It's not bad, for a first attempt. It has… potential."
Novak grinned as he chortled, "Furion's being polite. What he means, is you are far better at handling a sword than a paintbrush."
Chuckles arose from all but Toran saw Smyth scowling and asked, "Something to add?"
Smyth seemed perplexed as he uttered, "This is how you address your Captain? I've never heard such disrespect!"
Toran drew in a breath and said, "I prefer an informal company, I find it encourages new ideas and strategies. An officer who doesn't let his men express their opinions is ignoring his greatest weapons. Between ourselves, feel free to speak your mind, but in battle I expect instant obedience. Is that clear… Novak?"
Novak feigned indignation, "Why is it always me who gets picked out?"
"Because you make it easy," Furion muttered, "Now, don't we all have duties to attend to?"
Toran concurred, "Wise words as always Chaplain, Third Company has a long way to go before we are combat ready. Come on, I want us fighting as a proper unit before we make Warp translation. We have two days and I want us drilling for every second of it."
With that the Command squad broke up, heading out of his quarters in a jovial mood. Yet had they known what awaited them on their voyage they would have cursed their ignorant bliss.
