Diem Infamia Chapter 9

In the roiling depths of the Immaterium the Thunderchild tacked along, sailing the empyreal tides with patient determination. The Warp was composed of raw emotions, that stirred and swelled in ways no man could understand, and so the ship crested towering waves of passion and plunged into dips of despair. The Saint Karyl Trail was considered a stable route, but that meant very little in the Warp. So she slogged on, fighting her way to her destination while her Gellar field crackled as the talons of Neverborn entities tried to claw their way through the gossamer thin barrier.

Deep within the Thunderchild were training facilities and combat arenas, capable of reproducing any environment imaginable. An Astartes capital ship was much mobile base as functioning warship and these facilities could host hundreds of Space Marines at once. Today one of them had been set to recreate a void conflict, simulating the exterior of a starship's hull in exacting detail, right down to the unforgiving vacuum and the background radiation.

Captain Toran was striding across that facsimile, his relic sword in hand and his red cloak clipped to his belt, lest it float about and get in his way. He could hear his footsteps reverberating through his armour, mag-locked boots clicking as they engaged. His limbs felt the curious sensation of weightlessness, every movement feeling slowed and cumbersome, though his Transhuman body still reacted faster than any mortals. Toran had never been a proponent of zero-gee fights, in his opinion it rendered too many of an Astartes' genetic advantages moot, but vacuum training was an essential part of their skillset and must be practised as diligently as any other combat doctrine.

Around him stretched long rows of panels, pockmarked and lightened by radiation. His helm's autosenses picked out forests of Auspex vanes and buried airlock hatches, armoured ribs the size of hab blocks and the soaring tower of a Bombardment cannon. A perfect recreation of a warship's hull, it was remarkable the details the serf-artisans went to in order to make it feel real. To Toran's right was a Tactical squad and to his left was a Hellblaster squad, one of the new Primaris units. There was also a Reiver squad in his formation, though they were lurking out of sight, as was their way. Toran had deliberately mixed and matched the old and new units for this exercise, the Astartes and the Primaris needed to stop seeing each other as strangers and become familiar with each other. The new paradigm of Transhuman was unsettling to those who had spent ten millennia building a proud legacy and the newcomers didn't like being bossed about by their predecessors, a flaw they had to overcome. There was one other present, Lieutenant Smyth, who walked with a Martian bluesteel blade in hand, he was a Primaris officer but one who seemed willing to get over their differences and work together.

Toran put his thoughts aside as his force closed on a fake auspex array and voxed, "Blue team approach with caution, Red team have had time to dig in. Remember this may only be training but don't expect them to hesitate. Chaplain Furion is leading the foe and he doesn't pull his punches."
"Neither do I," Smyth replied on the vox.
Toran was glad to hear his fervour and ordered, "Lieutenant take our Tacticals forward and sweep the array, Hellblasters stay with me. Reivers, circle around the rear for a pincer attack."

The team split up as Toran had ordered, Smyth venturing into the forest of fat towers and dishes that loomed over their heads. Toran found himself left alone with the Hellblasters and he found it unsettling how all of them were taller than he was. Furion held that a warrior's strength flowed from his spirit, but it was still uncomfortable to be overshadowed by anyone. Toran had the sneaking suspicion that his breed of Astartes was falling behind, outdated by a newer, faster model.

Suddenly there was a cry on the vox as Smyth yelled, "Contact!"
Toran's autosenses flared as they detected the heat bloom of bolters firing, notably absent of noise in the vacuum and he reacted instantly shouting, "This is it, engage!"

He leapt into motion, clomping heavily as his boots mag-locked with every step. He led the Hellblasters from the front, eager to prove he was equal to his new Brothers. The light was chopped into slats but his autosenses easily penetrated the darkness to reveal grappling Transhumans. In every corner Storm Heralds fought, some with blue slashes over their pauldrons, some with red, but all fighting to their utmost. A single glance told Toran that his Blue Team was outnumbered and he had to engage.

Toran slammed to a halt and yelled, "Hellblasters, pick your targets and fire!" Instantly the Primaris lifted their weapons and let fly, blitzing the area with astonishing rates of firepower. Their plasma rifles were capped by bulky Las-designators, sending out digital signals instead of deadly plasma. Arcane artefacts of the Omnissiah let these communicate with the armour of the warriors, informing them when they had taken a hit and had to play dead. The Hellblasters lay down a curtain of firepower, crippling all before them as their targets froze in feigned death. It was an impressive display but Toran had seen them in true live-fire exercises and knew the awesome power of the Hellblasters when given free reign, decimating anything they hit and demolishing vehicles with endless streams of plasma.

Red team warriors fell before the onslaught yet they remained Space Marines and fell back in good order, laying down crossfires with paint loaded Bolters. Toran wasn't about to let them get away and voxed, "Reiver squad, the enemy is withdrawing, hit them in the rear!"
Silence was his only reply and he barked, "Reiver-Sergeant Gortam, respond damn it! Where are you? Warp hells, we can't let them get away, Blue team advance!"

Without the other half of their pincer Blue team were forced to give chase, pursuing Red team through the sensor vanes. Toran rushed forward, eager to claim victory and he spied his foes falling back before him. He raised his sword high; energy field set to the lowest level and prepared to leap into the fray. Yet as he did so there was a shadow of motion to his right and his helm snapped about to see more foes appearing from nowhere, all with red marks on their shoulders. "Ambush!" Toran roared as he swung to meet this new foe but even as he did so a trio of Aggressors stepped from the shadows, arms raising boltstorm gauntlets, then they opened fire. There was no time to evade before the blizzard hit them, spraying red paint over everything. Toran's armour was covered and its Spirit chimed, telling him he had taken fatal injuries… he was dead. Toran sighed and went still, knowing he had lost this fight and had to play dead. Eager shadows emerged from the darkness, Red team coming to claim their victory and Toran spied Furion among them. That was something, at least Furion was decent enough not to gloat over his victory.

The Captain prepared to offer congratulations to the Chaplain's team, yet as they stepped into the open another force revealed itself. From on high came a hail of paint rounds, striking the helms and shoulders of Red Team with exacting skill and precision. Toran's head lifted and he was shocked to see the Reivers emerging from cover, shrugging off metallic camo-shrouds that had blended in with the towering sensor vanes. In moments the Reivers had eliminated Red team utterly, leaving them dumbfounded amid the ashes of their victory.

Toran saw the Reivers push off their perches and glide down to the decking and he opened his vox to say, "Toran to control, exercise ended. Restore gravity and pump some damned air in here." There was the faint hissing of air returning and as soon as it was safe he ripped off his helm, breathing in with an angry rasp. Toran was deeply vexed by these events but forced himself to calmly say, "Congratulations Brothers, a well-fought exercise. Blue team won but Red team can take pride in its performance, that was an excellent ambush. Return to barracks and wash your armour, we'll do this again in one hour. Chaplain, Lieutenant, Sergeant Gortam, a word before you go."

The Storm Heralds stomped off, leaving the officers with Gortam. Toran waited until they were alone then snapped, "Sergeant, I gave you explicit orders, why did you not follow them?"
Gortam was only slightly taller than Toran in his Phobos plate but had kept his skull-mask on, giving him a fearsome mien. The Reiver sounded casual as he said, "We saw the ambush on our way in and decided to turn the trap upon itself."

Toran was surprised the Marine wasn't ashamed of his performance and growled, "You didn't think to inform the rest of us?"
Gortam cocked his head and said, "For the plan to work your reaction had to be genuine."

Toran's eyes narrowed and he said, "So you decided to let fellow Storm Heralds die?"
Yet Gortam replied candidly, "We won, didn't we?"

Toran swallowed a retort and said, "The purpose of this exercise was to promote squad cohesion. I can't command effectively if my Sergeants fail to report vital information. I needed to know your intentions, so we could come up with a plan that didn't involve the sacrifice of good Brothers."

Gortam sniffed, "I'll remember that for next time, am I dismissed?"
Wearily Toran sighed, "Go, I'll catch up."

The Reiver turned and jogged away and Toran muttered, "Why in the name of sanity did Belisarius Cawl decide to make Reivers?"
Lieutenant Smyth stepped nearer and said, "We had a saying in the Crusade, you can always expect to find a Reiver in the one place they aren't supposed to go."

Chaplain Furion shook his head and said, "They are sloppy, disrespectful and arrogant, a bad combination."
Toran agreed, "You're sure they are of XIIIth Legion gene-stock? Maybe someone slipped in some Vth or VIth Legion blood when you weren't looking."

"Unfortunately they are our blood-kin," Smyth replied, "But it is a…"
He trailed off, prompting Toran to say, "Something to add?"
Smyth replied, "I am not accustomed to your Command squad's freedom of speech, I wouldn't want to offend."

Yet Toran stated firmly, "Speak your mind Lieutenant; I have no use for Marines who can't think for themselves."

Smyth hesitated but then reluctantly said, "With all due respect, Reivers aren't frontline troops, it is a mistake to treat them as such. They are deep-range sabotage and terror units, operating with far more independence than any Scout-novice squad. They are trained to go in alone and unsupported, to complete their objectives by any means necessary and continue operating independently for the duration."

Furion sounded curious as he asked, "How does a Space Marine army function with such rogue elements in play?"
Smyth replied, "Generally, I found it best to give them their target and let them figure out the rest for themselves. It's not like they would listen to our tactical recommendations."
Toran nodded and said, "Thank you for your honesty Lieutenant, I will bear that in mind. Go get cleaned up, I will follow soon."

Smyth jogged away and Toran muttered, "And I thought my Command Squad were a handful."
Furion softly removed his helm and said, "To bridge the gap between our breeds is a challenging prospect, they are so different in form and thinking, yet it must be done, these Primaris aren't going away."

Toran sighed, "No they aren't. They are so fast and so strong and they learn at an astonishing rate. Soon they will know all we have to teach them and more. I worry that they will come to surpass us in time."
"I have seen the future and it is Primaris," Furion concurred, "But we are not dead yet, we still have strength and fire to offer, we still have a role to play."

Toran mused, "Do we? The Storm Heralds plan for two more generations of recruits, maybe three, as we convert our facilities to the new standards. Then the only Storm Heralds in the galaxy will be Primaris."

Furion lowered his head and whispered, "If that is Roboute Guilliman's will, then we must comply."
Toran chewed his lip for a moment then said, "I thought our exercises might draw him out of seclusion, but we haven't seen a glimpse of him."

Furion's head rose and he probed, "Looking to add a fourth gold stud to your wrist?"
Toran snorted in amusement and said, "You see right through me. Of course I want to speak to him. I want to discourse with him on tactics and philosophy, to hear his last additions to the Codex Imperialis and plans for grand strategy. To glean the smallest part of his dazzling insight is a chance none could pass up."

Furion concurred, "We were made to follow him, it is encoded within our very gene-seed. Yet that is not what troubles you most, is it?"

Toran knew it was true and sadly confessed, "Another day in the Warp then a simple run into Tectum and he will depart, probably never to return. The Storm Heralds are not high on his list of priorities, he won't come back, this I know in my hearts. It is sorrow I never expected."
Furion placed a gauntlet on Toran's shoulder and said, "He bears the weight of a galaxy on his back, yet he is equal to the task. We should be honoured to play a part in his designs, whether it is grand or small."

Toran drew in a slow breath and said, "You are right, as always. Let us not begrudge our lot but strive to be the best we can be. Speaking of which I need to get cleaned up and then we can run this exercise again. Be warned, this time blue team won't fall for your cunning ambush."

With that the pair set off, determined to match their lord's standards, even if he never knew it.