Exitus Ultima Chapter 25
It was a sad and lonely flight of gunships that made its way back from Jercha city-state. Thunderhawks and Overlords, in Storm Herald blue, trailing contrails against the noon sky. For half a day the Transhumans had shifted the rubble of the Alpha Legion base, seeking clues or the faint possibility the Traitors had lied about a cure. They had not, the basecamp revealed nothing, so the Storm Heralds departed in shame.
In the gunship 'Sunhawk' Toran stood quietly, his head low and his hand on the Sword of Thiel in its scabbard. The bitter tang of defeat gripped his throat and his hearts were cold. He thought his whole life had been a prelude to this moment, and then he had fallen short. He had come so far, endured so much, a century of blistering warfare and at the very last he had failed. Quiet despair gnawed the roots of his soul and he could barely look at his comrades, he could not bear to see the accusation in their eyes.
Along the hold Smyth, Persion, Jediah, Arvael and Furion stood quietly, coping in their own ways. Twenty Steel Confessors were with them, Faeron's last Brothers. The Iron Father had stood with the Third in battle and deserved to ride with the Captain, but their comradery was made moot by recent events. Novak rode in the hold, too big to it in the rear troop compartment, the Dreadnought had to stand alone.
An insistent beeping interrupted Toran's shame, the Hololith seeking attention. Toran could not bring himself to activate it, lacking any motivation to act. Duties awaited, honours for squads had to be bestowed and losses mourned, but he had no stomach for any of it. All he could do was stand and stare at the blinking light, sorrow choking any compulsion to move.
A black-clad hand reached past, Furion, activating the Hololith. An image sprang into being, Chapter Master Phalros. The lord of all Storm Heralds looked grim, his countenance dour. Arvael had prepared a mission briefing and it seemed Phalros had read it. The news had rocked him, as it had them all. None could be told their gene-father was doomed and not shudder.
"Brother-Captain," Phalros urged, "Tell me it isn't true."
"Phalros..." was all Toran could muster as his throat quivered.
"It is true," Phalros breathed in shock, "The poison, there is no cure."
Arvael stepped forward, "The Alpha Legion could not countenance any possibility of us undoing their handiwork. They never developed a cure, why would they?"
"Without a cure Roboute Guilliman is doomed," Phalros lamented, "Surely there must be another way."
"They told me the poison is ever-changing, ever-evolving, constantly seeking new ways to kill. Even a Primarch cannot defeat a weapon that is constantly redesigning itself."
"Damn Traitors," Jediah growled, "They bragged about it."
"They wanted to rub our faces in it, make us suffer in the knowledge," Arvael sighed.
From the hold Novak called, "I say we hunt them down and kill each and every last one of them!"
"I concur with the venerable ancient," Faeron agreed.
Phalros shook his holographic head, "That will do no good, events are spiralling out of hand."
"Master?" Furion asked.
"The Chapters verge on outright war," Phalros explained, "The Destroyers and White Scars are screaming over some slight to their honour, centuries ago. The Novamarines have sighted their ship's guns upon the Hawk Lord's Strike Cruiser. The Fire Lords, Marines Malevolent and Smoke Jaguars are shooting at each other in the streets."
"Surely not!" Smyth exclaimed.
"Cato Sicarius is demanding their respective leaders present themselves to him for reprimand, for all the good that will do."
Faeron shifted his stance, "The time is upon us to think about what comes next. The Regent left contingency orders regarding the possibility of his second death, detailed instructions on how to continue his plans. Above all leadership of the Crusade must be taken up, by one who can command respect."
Phalros sighed, "There is only one name who could possibly take the office: The Black Templar Hellbrecht, Marshall of Marshalls and heir of Sigismund. But he is trailblazing a path deep into Segmentum Tempestus. He cannot return in time."
"The attempt must be made!" Furion urged, "Else we accept the fall of the Imperium and the end of mankind. For the Emperor's sake we must try."
Phalros nodded, "Well said Furion. Your wisdom is sound as ever and has never been more needed. You must take up the role of Master of Sanctity this very day. The Storm Heralds must try to hold this Crusade together till Hellbrecht can return. All companies must move to suppress the fighting. Toran your Third will be needed... Toran?"
Toran blinked his organic eye, "Apologies, I cannot process that we speak of Roboute Guilliman as if already dead."
"I share your grief," Phalros agreed, "But that day is upon us."
"The Alpha Legion took everything from us, when they introduce that damned poison to our lord."
"They didn't," Arvael sighed.
Toran paused as he turned to the Librarian, "Say that again?"
"The poison, it wasn't theirs to make. They merely stirred it to action with a bloodcurse. The poison was sunk into his flesh millennia ago by Fulgrim, it has been lurking in his blood ever since."
"Fulgrim?!" Novak bellowed from the hold, "He's behind this?!"
"Not directly," Arvael explained, "The Daemon-Primarch left his mark, but it was the Daemon Harbinger who concocted this scheme. The Alpha Legion's role is hazy and hard to determine. I think they were working together for a time, but fell out of favour quickly."
"Harbinger's back too?!" Persion growled, "This gets worse by the minute."
Furion agreed, "Indeed, a Daemon of such potency is not to be underestimated, we may have bigger concerns than infighting."
"You haven't seen the arguments raging over here," Phalros scoffed, "Just getting Jaric Phoros, K'inich Yux and Agrippa into a room without knifing each other is a challenge."
The debate continued but Toran wasn't listening. Something about Arvael's phrasing struck Toran oddly, making a curious thought arise. Past reflections on his gene-father's nature collided with the truth of the poison, making him question his presumptions. Not an idea as such, more a puzzlement, a curio that Toran had been chewing on for a while. His guesses and impressions of the Primarch ran up against the discoveries Arvael had made and jarred. They couldn't both be true, so the logical answer was Toran had been wrong, yet he couldn't let go of his belief. Slowly he started turning it over, re-examining his every thought and memory of the Primarch.
"Wait, that can't be right," Toran breathed.
"Captain?" Smyth asked.
"If Arvael's right, then how is he alive at all?" Toran mused.
"Something you want to tell us?" Persion quipped.
"No, it's just that both can't be true."
"Both what?" Arvael pressed.
But Toran's mind was fizzing with possibilities, "He's alive, he's patently returned to life, has been for ten years... yet the poison was in him all along... it makes no sense... How... how is he alive at all?"
Furion leaned over, "Brother-Captain, it has been a trying day. You should meditate and clear your thoughts."
Yet Phalros' image urged, "Shut up!"
"My lord?"
"Everybody be quiet right now!" Pharlos urged, "Toran's being unorthodox again."
Toran couldn't stop the words pouring out, "Ever changing, ever adapting and improving, constantly seeking new ways to kill a Primarch. How has he survived this long? Eldar intervention...surely it played a part but he would need... No, that can't be correct... nothing could keep up... there's no way to predict the variations... Unless... unless... unless he... Oh... Oh, Holy Throne... he did it didn't he... that mad Heretical bastard! The wonderful maniac only bloody well went and did it!"
"Captain, are you calling our gene-father a maniac?" Arvael enquired.
But Toran countered, "No not him, Cawl... that arrogant, reckless, perverted genius that brought Guilliman back. No one else would dare, but Belisarius Cawl is just mad enough to try!"
Smyth frowned, "I'm totally lost."
"You're not the only one," Persion muttered.
"Is he often like this?" Faeron enquired.
"Only when he's being brilliant," Phalros replied.
From the hold Novak called, "I can't see a bloody thing down here, what's going on up there?!"
"Toran's having one of his 'unconventional' ideas," Persion yelled.
"Great, that usually means we're either about to save the galaxy or jump off a bridge into a sea of Orks!"
Toran's mind was filled with revelation, as the truth stole over him. He could be wrong, he could be so far off the mark as to be shooting shadows at midnight, but he was certain he was right. The possibility was like the first ray of dawn stealing over the horizon, so blinding and yet wondrous. Toran was the only one in the galaxy who could see the light and it made his hearts quiver with excitement. Hope, so faint and fleeting, thought dead but restored unto him in the darkest of hours.
Toran barked, "Chapter Master, I urge you to recall all Storm Heralds to the Primarch's location immediately!"
"You ask for a lot without explanation," Phalros hissed.
"After all we've been through I have no right to ask, but I need your trust more than ever."
"So shall it be," Phalros agreed, "I shall meet you there."
Phalros' image winked out as Toran said, "Faeron, I apologise but I must delay your exit for a few hours."
"I demand you explain what's going on right now!" Faeron barked.
"I will, in a minute, but first we need more speed. Brother-Pilot Timmone, what is our velocity?"
From the cockpit the call came back, "Cruising at Mach 1.5."
"Increase speed, push the Machine Spirit to the maximum."
A moment's pause as the pilots conferred, "Confirmed Brother-Captain, increasing to Mach 2.5."
"Not fast enough, give us Mach 3 now!"
"The Codex Astartes prohibits such reckless endangerment of the airframe in low atmosphere," Timmone warned, "We are obliged to seek orbital interface, which takes time."
"I am ordering you to ignore that," Toran commanded, "If you've ever dreamt of finding out what a Thunderhawk is truly capable of, this is your lucky day."
"Confirmed," Timmone repaid with relish, "I've been waiting for this my whole damned life."
The Engines howled and the airframe rattled like a drum as the gunship increased speed. Toran felt himself being pressed backwards by inertia and a violent tremor shook every bit of loose metal in the troop bay. The airframe groaned as it expanded, heated by the friction of air passage. Only reentry matched this pressure on the hull, and the point of that was to slow down, not accelerate. Never had he flown in a gunship travelling so fast in low atmosphere, and yet he feared it wasn't fast enough.
Faeron blinked, "A Thunderhawk is not rated for such velocity in air."
"Then let us trust the Machine Spirit is forgiving," Toran replied.
"She'll fly apart at this speed!"
"Then we'll fly her apart!" Toran barked, "I don't care if there's nothing left save an engine and half a wing, so long as we get to the Primarch in time!"