Extremus Fors Chapter 45

Novak floated in a sea of pain. It was all he knew, the sum total of existence. Pain shouldn't be able to penetrate a sus-an-membrane induced coma, but it did. His mind was a scrap of driftwood amid turbulent tides, spun by forces beyond his control. Deep he sank into the mists of oblivion, seeking sanctuary in dreams. Madness beckoned in that deep current, but anything would be better than this.

Novak dreamt he walked on a dusty world, high up a mountain of cold summits and craggy slopes. He imagined himself clad in armour, with a chainsword in hand. Perfect in form and flawless in face, as he was in his youth. He had never truly appreciated how beautiful he had been until it was gone, his face marred by scars that mounted as decades ground past. The power of his limbs was exultant, his speed was breath-taking, even as a boy. Truly Novak has stood out among his peers among the Scout-Novices, his skill obvious from the first day. The assumption of easy glory had been unquestioned in his youthful mind, though that dream was swiftly knocked out of him.

He was fighting someone, a whirling figure of wing and chainglaive. Midnight-clad was he and helmed in gruesome visage, with his kills proclaimed by many tallies. His speed and finesse overpowered the young Novak, teaching the boy important lessons in the flow of a duel. This had been his first epic confrontation, Vorshaan the Dusk Prince, a hated foe that Novak had been lucky to survive meeting.

Their duel replayed itself step for step. Novak had fought with two swords that day, Chainsword and gladius, but Vorshaan had matched him with only a Chainglaive. Their fight was fast and furious and yet Novak's hearts beat calmly and he experienced no sense of danger. The whole situation felt detached and impersonal, like watching a pair of dramaturgists play out a fight upon a stage.

"This isn't real," Novak said.

"Define real," Vorshaan snapped as he spun and whirled.

"Am I dead?"

"The answer to that is somewhere between yes and no," Vorshaan retorted.

Novak replayed his ancient moves as he retorted, "I must be dead and this hell, else why would you be here?"

"Maybe you missed my friendly face," Vorshaan jeered.

"Your ego hasn't improved any for being killed."

"You can't talk!" Vorshaan snorted.

"You know, meeting you changed me," Novak mused, "I was so cocky, but this day I learned there were people out there better than me. It forced me to get better, to fight every day to be the best swordsman I could be."

"Is that what you really learned that day?" Vorshaan countered.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, this day you learned the importance of cheating fate!"Vorshaan snarled as a knife slid out of his boot and he kicked Novak in the back of the leg. Novak staggered but then he was elsewhere, not on a world at all but in a ship, a Xeno construct of flowing lines and cruel dimensions. Now he was older, wearing the armour of a Company Champion, Honour's Edge in his grip and a shield on his arm. His foe was a whirling mote of darkness, with armour made of serrated edges and a two-handed Klaive in hands.

"Dramaq," Novak hissed as they fought.

"Mon-Keigh," the Dark Eldar Incubus hissed.

"I don't remember you speaking," Novak retorted.

"This is your mind," the Incubus retorted, "Blame your inferiority for its imperfect recall."

"I'm so glad I killed you," Novak snapped.

"Yes, and remember you well the lesson of sacrifice learned that day."

Novak saw the grenade in his fist a moment before it went off, blasting his face with shrapnel. That fight had cost him his beauty, leaving him scarred and burned, but a harder warrior for it. Pain throbbed, but then he was elsewhere. A burning city, a clash of Transhumans among the burning spires of scholarship. This time he was fighting a Primaris Marine, a Chaplain of fierce ardour and unrelenting zeal. Ulysses of the Ashen Knights.

Novak skipped about his lumbering blows as he remarked, "Strange, I remember us parting as friends. I still carry your token."

"We weren't at this point," Ulysses snorted.

"So, have you an important lesson for me?"

"Redundant as ever," Ulyssess snapped, "Acting dumber than you truly are."

"If you're going to insult me, I'll move on."

Ulysses growled, "If you need it laid out then hears this: you didn't win this fight. I beat you within an inch of your life, yet you didn't give up. You kept going, rose to the challenge and fought on. That took strength of will, unyielding determination. You always get up, you always keep fighting. Remember that grit, you will need it in the millennia to come."

"What..." Novak began but then was elsewhere. In the crumbling Forgefane, locked in the most furious duel of his life. Jubila was there, sabre flashing as he danced with grace even Novak struggled to match. A dark glut of woe lurked mere minutes ahead, but for now Novak was content to fight this foe and forget the rest.

"Not bad," Jubila laughed, "You always were good sport!"

"You're not dead," Novak pointed out.

"Dreams are funny," Jubila dismissed, "The only rules here are yours."

"So, what am I supposed to hear from you?"

Jubila chuckled, "I'm surprised you need to ask: hatred. You hate me with all your being. Such a marvellous drive hatred is, it elevates and inspires. Let's face it, I was always better than you, but your hatred made you my equal, almost... well, you could at least claim to be in the same league. Hold such potent fire close to your hearts, don't let it go out. It may be your salvation."

"You..." Novak began to say, but then he was elsewhere. A strange dream this one, he didn't recognise at all. Novak's vision expanded, spreading out wider than he had ever known, reaching entirely around in an all-encompassing panorama. His sight was grainy and fizzled like an ill-tuned pict-screen, colours grey and uninspired. His arms and legs felt heavy, as if bound by great weights and his breath seemed absent, he wasn't sure why but assumed this was part of the dream. Everything was cold, as if swimming naked in the churning oceans of Lujan II. He longed to rub his limbs, to inject some warmth, but was unable to move at all. He didn't like this dream, he decided, he was eager to move on to the next.

A semi-circle of armoured figures stood before him. They were very short for Space Marines, that was odd. They appeared to be half-sized, like Novak was standing on a balcony looking down at them. They were talking and Novak could hear every word, sharper than ever, every hitch of their breath and beat of their hearts was in his ears. How very strange.

"Neural interface established," Geryon was saying, "Machine Spirits of the optic feeds are online, audio pick-ups active. Mind Impulse Unit has achieved communion with the flesh, praise be to the Omnissiah."

"He can hear us?" Cortha asked.

"Certainly," Geryon replied.

"Then why doesn't he speak?"

Arvael answered, "Because we haven't given him reason to. Novak, can you answer me?"

"ARVAEL, YOU GOT SHORTER," Novak boomed, surprising himself with the volume.

"He's awake!" Cortha exclaimed.

"I sound weird," Novak uttered, "This is very odd."

"Novak," Geryon pressed, "Try to remember what happened, do you recall your last fight?"

"Hey, look what I can do! My voice is all over the place!"

Arvael stepped forward, head craning upwards as he said, "Novak, you have been in a coma for weeks, and in the Forges for many days. Your situation has... changed."

"YOU'RE IN MY DREAM TOO, DO YOU HAVE A LESSON FOR ME?"

"He's gone insane," Cortha muttered.

"His brain is adapting to neurochemical changes," Geryon corrected, "A delusional state is common at first."

"No," Arvael sighed, "It's deeper than that, he's in denial. This is going to be harder than we thought. Novak, I'm sorry to say this is no dream. What you are experiencing is real."

"Haha," Novak scoffed, "Very amusing, but enough of this. I'd like to move on to another dream."

Arvael looked grim as he said, "Novak... remember how you came to be like this. Remember Fulgrim."

"I..." Novak trailed off as it came back to him. The fight, the terrible wounds he suffered, the loss of his arm and the sensation of burning alive. The Daemon-Primarch had taken everything from him, everything. Novak had been reduced to a char-broiled sack of meat, eking out a tortured existence that made him long for the comfort of the grave.

"I..." Novak exclaimed, "I should be dead, why aren't I dead?!"

"Calm yourself!" Cortha barked.

"I was done!" Novak wailed, "I was finished and spent. Nothing was left of me; my life was over! I shouldn't be here, why am I still here?!"

"Because I ordered it so," a stern voice uttered. From the corner of the room came Phalros and Echeb, the lords striding into view from the side. Novak realised then that he had been able to see them all along, as well as numerous Apothecaries and Techmarines standing at the edge of a large Machine Shrine. Novak's mind twitched and his vision zoomed in, so close he could see every pore on Phalros' face, then another twitch and he saw in spectrums of X-ray and infrared. Targeting icons drifted in the air as screeds of information began to roll by, fed directly into his neural cortex. Novak was aware of everything, in ways even autosenses had never approached.

Phalros looked up at him and said, "Novak, your injuries were severe, yet your value to the Chapter was too great to allow you to pass. Your duty is not done, so radical steps were taken."

"Show me," Novak barked.

"You need time to..." Arvael soothed.

"SHOW ME!"

A nod from Phalros and a new image was projected into his mind. He saw Ajax standing proud in the machine shrine, no Ajax was dead, this was someone else. The same armoured body, replete with power fist and assault cannon, but different too. Scrolled artwork had been added to the lower half of the sarcophagus and the shoulders had been adorned with golden ablative plates. The sensor dome had been sculpted with a raised champion's crest, running from brow to the nape of the neck. A swordsman's laurel had been engraved on the left knee and finally a broken Rosarius was fitted to the front, the same one that had bedecked his shield for years.

"Is that... me?" Novak wheezed.

"I'm afraid so," Arvael breathed.

"It can't be true!"

"It is true, get used to it," Cortha barked.

Echeb stepped forward, "Honourable Novak, we have allowed you time to adjust to your new reality out of respect, but this denial serves no one. You have been granted a great honour, to live on as a Dreadnought is a boon few prove worthy of. Your time as Champion of the Third, and later the Chapter, marks you out. But this gift comes with terrible responsibilities. You must fight harder and more fiercely than ever before, all will look to you as an example to follow."

"Third Company," Novak gasped, "Toran, Furion, Jediah...Persion. Do they know what's happened?"

"They have been informed," Phalros answered, "In time you will meet them."

"I can't," Novak protested, "They can't see me like this!"

But Phalros barked, "Dreadnought or not, you are a Storm Herald and will do as you are ordered!"

Novak's hearts railed but duty compelled him to utter, "Yes Chapter Master, even in death I still serve."

Geryon was running an auspex over his frame and mused, "Neural interface is calibrated, you should be able to move. Try taking a step." Novak silently obeyed, pulling up his leg. The resulting motion was slow and deliberate, pistons wheezing as he pushed forward. Vision bobbed in a sickening sway as his sensors rose and fell with the motion, leaving him with the impression he was on a boat cresting a wave. Several steps he took and was appalled at how slowly he moved, gone was his swift agility and easy grace, he lumbered like a Train-city, ponderous and heavy.

"This is... different," Novak uttered wary of offending Phalros again.

"What you lose in speed you make up in strength," Geryon replied, "You'll adapt."

"Besides with armour plating like that you won't have to worry too much about dodging," Cortha sniffed.

"Before anything else, we should take Honourable Novak to a test-range and put him through his paces," Geryon stated.

"I..." Novak said, "Will follow."

Phalros declared, "Take your time, you need to learn your new capabilities. When the Techmarines say you are ready you shall be reunited with the Third. Meanwhile I must prepare the Chapter for the days ahead, many pressing issues require my attention. We must prepare for the arrival of stern guests, and a day of mourning must be set aside for Ajax. The Chaplains must be prepared for the initiates to be clamouring for their spiritual counsel."

Phalros left, with Echeb in tow. The others gathered around and Arvael said, "I know you don't like this, but you are fortunate. Few can claim to have faced Fulgrim and lived."

"If you need inspiration, you can always dream of carving revenge out of his accursed hide," Cortha suggested.

"Thank you Chaplain, perhaps in time I'll find some energy for that," Novak whispered.

"Come," Geryon declared, "The Forgemaster wants to put you through your paces."

The trio led him out and Honourable Novak followed, unable to do anything else. As he walked part of his attention was on the external image of himself, seeing a soul more miserable than any he had ever known. A long, bleak future lay before him, bereft of colour or the spice of life. Eternal duty and grinding ages crawling by, along with the dawning realisation he would outlive all his friends and comrades. As he left the shrine a broken Novak could only whisper, "You should have left me dead."