Chapter 4: A Coalition Most Tenuous
"You are sure?" Nemros asked in disbelief, his mind still trying to process the information that it had received.
Vargus shifted uneasily beneath his fixed gaze. "It is a situation most unbelievable, indeed. Yet I am certain that what I said to you is the reality that we are now faced with."
Nemros stood stock still, mentally reeling. A different reality? Such a thing should not have even been theoretically possible, yet Vargus had spent the last hour describing to him all the things that simply did not add up.
"You cannot sense the Astronomican? At all?"
"No Brother, neither can the Shadow's Navigator," Vargus grunted, no doubt greatly disturbed by such an event. The Astronomican was the Emperor's light in the Warp, allowing the might of the Imperium's battlefleets to sail to distant worlds in defense of mankind. Were the Astronomican to ever cease shining, then mankind would be unable to defend itself, torn to shreds by both the multitude of xenos races and the deprivations of the predators of the Warp. It would also mean that the Emperor had finally died, the Golden Throne having failed at last, as the Astronomican was tied inextricably to the Master of Mankind. "The daemons that haunt my every move are conspicuously absent as well. They do not hurl themselves against my defenses in the hopes of finding a crack in my mental armor."
The Captain of the Fifth Company was perturbed, to say the least. He had heard the stories of course. Tales of Guardsmen deployed to distant sectors to halt the ravages of an enemy of the Imperium only to arrive a thousand years too late, their journey affected by the whimsical eddies of the Warp. But this? "So what do you think we should do then?" He kept his voice low as he asked. Should his Brothers find out about their situation before he could decide upon what course they should pursue, there would be chaos. Disorder and confusion would run rampant, before they inevitably fractured. They would not become renegades, each of them pursing their own selfish goals. Not while he still drew breath. "There is no Imperium of Man. No Immortal Emperor. Our oaths upon which we base all of our decisions are all now meaningless. Would you have us turn our backs upon all that it means to be Astartes?"
"No Brother, I would not," Vargus said calmly, clearly having had such thoughts himself. "Even here there is still humanity. A humanity that has a clear need for the Emperor's most powerful tools if it is to survive. We would be remiss if we were to abandon them simply because they are not the Emperor's subjects."
"Very noble Brother. Yet, they are indeed not the Emperor's subjects," Nemros said agitatedly, his voice beginning to grow in volume and he began unconsciously pacing as he continued to speak. "They have not even so much as heard of Him. What then should I tell our Brothers? That we are forsaking the mankind we know of to protect these…strangers? That we are damned no matter what we do?"
Silence reigned in the Apothecarium, broken only by the passage of the occasional Apothecary passing through on the way to his duties and the hum of the various machines that lined the walls as the two Astartes contemplated a reality in which they were no longer truly needed.
"I think, Brother, that that is exactly what you should tell them," Vargus said after several minutes had passed.
Nemros said nothing, looking at the Epistolary as he waited for an explanation of the Librarian's rationale.
"I have not the slightest of ideas as to how we would even begin to return to our galaxy, nor if it can even be done at all. However, a sense of purpose would keep the Company from splintering while we search. And what higher cause can there be than the preservation of humanity?"
"None at all Brother," Nemros replied automatically.
"Indeed. I fear, Brother that no matter what choice you make today, the Fifth Company of the Iron Sentinels will be no more. Not, at least, as we knew it. But where there is still hope, where there is still humanity, we will fight, as we have always done."
Silence ruled after Vargus finished speaking, both of the Marines tense and anxious, yet understanding that such a radical situation required drastic measures in order to adapt to it. Such was the thinking that the Iron Sentinels had followed ever since their Founding.
"I will think on your advice Vargus, amongst many other things," Nemros said after a while. "I would also appreciate it if you were beside me when we meet with this representative of the Systems Alliance."
"If I can manage to sneak past the Apothecaries, then you can trust me to be there," Vargus smiled weakly.
Nemros allowed himself a tiny smirk at the answer before turning to leave the Apothecarium. He needed more advice before he could allow himself to commit to a course of action. Any hesitation on his part would result in him faltering, even if for just a second. In a galaxy that challenged his very existence, to falter would mean death for the entire Fifth Company.
But he was an Astartes. Astartes did not falter. No matter the cost, they prevailed.
"Brother Manswell," he voxed as he made his way into the bowels of the Shadow. "I have need of advice. Awaken the Ancient."
Half-blind eyes opened wearily, eyelids unfastening from each other for the first time in over…
He paused mentally as he realized that he had no idea. How long had it been? How long since the Chapter had last needed his services as a warrior and a leader?
CONNECTING SARCOPHAGUS TO DREADNOUGHT FRAME…
Runes momentarily flashed in green before him, a jumble of words and binary that only a Techmarine would be capable of understanding. Even after centuries of internment, he still did not understand what they meant. Only the blocky words that followed and dominated his autosenses were anything close to normal Gothic to him.
SARCOPHAGUS CONNECTED. RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS…
ALL SYSTEMS AT NOMINAL CAPACITY. ATTACHING LEFT ARM…
Ancient mechanisms hummed and whirred as they descended from the room's vast ceiling, carrying an arm that ended in a power fist graced with an underslung heavy flamer. Metal groaned and sparks flew as the machine attached the limb to its frame.
LEFT ARM ATTACHED. ATTACHING RIGHT ARM…
The Marine, more metal and bone than flesh now, watched impassively through the autosenses that had long since replaced his eyes as the process was repeated once more, this time attaching a twin-linked lascannon to his right arm socket.
RIGHT ARM ATTACHED. RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS…
ERROR. ELECTRO-FIBRE BUNDLES IN LEFT ARM 3% INSENSITIVE. CORRECTING…
ERROR CORRECTED. INITIALIZING POWER FLOW TO DREADNOUGHT FRAME…
His mechanical "heart" pulsed, pushing power out from its venerable thermic reactor and into his limbs, restoring a shadow of the sensations his battered and rotted body once felt as it did. The Chapter had called for him, and he had returned from death to serve once more.
POWER FLOW AT OPTIMAL LEVELS. DREADNOUGHT FRAME READY FOR WAR. PRAISE BE UNTO THE OMNISSIAH.
"Brother, it is good to see you walk amongst us once more," a voice sounded to his right. His chassis whirred as he swiveled slightly to look at the source of the familiar voice. Where had he heard that voice before? Where had he seen this face before? The memories of the last time he had been awake were so fuzzy and pale…
"Do you not recognize your better?" the source of the voice jested, though he could detect a slight undertone of worry coursing beneath the verbal jab.
"Nemros," the Dreadnought boomed as a name floated to the forefront of his memories. "I see you have not yet completely ruined my Company with your hapless leadership."
Whatever good humor that had settled onto his friend's helmetless face disappeared at those words. "That is what I have asked that you be awoken for Arathen. The Company stands at an unprecedented crossroads, and I am most troubled."
"Then speak Brother, and I shall listen."
So Nemros spoke of what the Fifth Company had done, how it had survived a harrowing journey through the Warp only to land in a strange new reality. How its fate balanced upon the narrowest of edges, and how a choice the displeased even one Brother could lead to its fragmentation. Arathen listened to it all silently, saying nothing until Nemros had finished his explanation.
"This is dire news indeed Brother, yet I find myself agreeing with the advice given to you by the Epistolary. If this is the end of the Fifth Company as we once knew it, then let it be an end that the Emperor Himself would be proud of."
Arathen watched as a myriad of emotions played themselves out upon Nemros' face, the man's normally stoic expression shattered by the weight of responsibility that had been thrust upon him so suddenly. The Ancient could sympathize, although he was unable to truly empathize. He had made many choices that had haunted him for decades after the fact, nagging doubts that had rode on his conscience, yet never once had he had to confront something like this.
Finally, one emotion won out above the rest. Resolve steeled Nemros' gaze as he looked up at Arathen's viewport. "Then I will choose the only option that I suppose I have ever been able to choose since this situation presented itself. Will you stand by my side when I meet with the representative of this mankind?"
For all that he was unable to do for his successor, Arathen could do this. "Yes."
Shepard paced the cockpit of the Normandy with an odd mixture of eager anticipation and trepidation. In less than five minutes, they would exit FTL around Benning and he would once more become involved in an event that would shatter the way the inhabitants of the galaxy understood reality.
After so many other similar events, he would be lying to himself if he did not secretly envy the man who worked a steady job and lived a boring family life. He had experienced enough galaxy-shaking revelations to last him multiple lifetimes by this point. He had also grown more than a little tired of being constantly hailed as the "galaxy's last hope" after so many years of being ignored, downplayed, and ostracized.
His anxiety had not been helped by Admiral Hackett contacting him an hour before the Normandy had made its jump to Benning, informing him that the officers conducting the pre-negotiation feelers with the newcomers had made a complete hash of themselves, leaving Shepard as the Alliance's last chance at bringing these strangers into the fight against the Reapers. Shepard could not even be bothered to try being surprised by that information.
"Shepard," came the gravelly tones of Wrex from behind him. The massive alien had at first been infuriated by Shepard's decision to leave Tuchanka for this, but after Shepard had shown him the feeds depicting the newcomers to him, the Krogan had calmed down considerably. All he had said was, "Make sure to get me some of those weapons, and we'll be even," before turning back to whatever he had been engrossed in prior to the confrontation.
"Yeah Wrex?" he asked without looking back. The massive alien had clearly taken an interest in these outsiders beyond his initial diffidence, demanding that Shepard bring him along on the negotiations. Wrex had justified it as needing to appear as if he were capable of acting as a leader to a united Krogan race, but Shepard knew that Wrex was just as curious as the rest of them.
"You're making my plates itch with your pacing," the lump of scales and redundant organs said, encased within his trademark blood red armor. "Stop it."
Cursing internally, Shepard brought his wayward feet under control. It was a nervous habit, and a painfully transparent one at that.
"Yeah," agreed a dual-toned voice, "can't have the Savior of the Galaxy scaring off the crazy-strong aliens now can we?"
"Agreeing with Krogan now are we Garrus?" he said as he turned to see his Turian friend and Liara walking down the pathway that led from the Normandy's CIC to the cockpit, trailed closely behind by James. "Truly you've fallen far. Besides, if anything scares them off it'll be that scar collection of yours."
Garrus merely chuckled in response, "You're just jealous is all."
"Not all women like scars Garrus," Liara intoned, smiling slightly at the exaggeratedly depressed look the Turian immediately adopted.
"Liara, any luck with your information net?" Shepard asked, thankful for his friends and their bantering. The enormity of his upcoming task seemed somewhat less so with them by his side.
"Absolutely nothing. It's like they didn't even exist before a few days ago," the Asari said, sounding immensely frustrated. Liara had an insatiable desire to know all that she could, and to consistently be proven inadequate even with her almost-unlimited resources had to be incredibly irritating.
"Then I guess we'll have to play this by the ear then. Hackett's given me complete freedom to act as I see fit with this."
"And if this all goes to hell?" James piped up.
Shepard merely shrugged in response, having no idea of his own. Rationally he knew that based on the recordings he had studied, they would not have a chance of escaping should the newcomers prove hostile. So he settled upon simply responding with, "If that happens, we'll have to get a little creative."
"Excellent evasion boss," Joker commented from his place in the pilot's chair.
"I try," the Commander shrugged as he turned back towards the viewport.
"Funny, you never let me use that answer."
"Perks of being in charge. Time until exit from FTL?"
"Just about to drop out right now."
The Normandy slid out of FTL with all the smooth grace that would be expected from a ship of her classification, only the slightest of bumps marring an otherwise unnoticeable transition. Only the vastness of space greeted them, with the verdant orb of Benning hanging in the void before them.
"EDI, any sign of their ship?" Shepard asked.
"Yes Shepard, sending the coordinates to Jeff now," the robotic voice of EDI came from her position in the copilot's chair, voice oddly…hesitant? "Shepard, I am running scans on their ship now."
"What've you got?" he asked, curious as to what type of ship these newcomers had if it had even EDI worked up.
"Initial scans are reporting their ship to be over seven kilometers in length Shepard."
There was a long moment of silence as all present absorbed the implications of that sentence at their own pace.
"EDI…seven kilometers? Are you sure?" Joker asked slowly, disbelievingly. "Maybe you should run the scans again, maybe there's some anomaly messing with your sensors."
"I do not make mistakes Jeff," EDI said, sounding miffed at the thought that her body was anything but perfect. "I have concrete scans now. Their ship is just under seven and a half kilometers long."
Wrex let out a single, unimpressed-sounding huff. But even he looked somewhat eager at the news.
"The ship is coming into visual range now," EDI said while the organics began to press into the cockpit to catch a glimpse of this super ship.
Shepard inhaled sharply at the sight of the newcomers' ship. It was unlike anything he had seen before. A huge, bulky rear section towered above the forward section, which tapered off in a long, narrow neck that terminated in what appeared to be a blocky, menacing cannon. The ship itself was painted a mixture of blacks and grays, with the artistic image of a looming tower painted on the sides of the rear section.
"Not impressed," Joker said after a few seconds of silence.
Shepard tore his gaze away from the impossible sight before him to stare in disbelief at the pilot. "What?" he asked.
"Sure it looks like someone took a cathedral and strapped a whole bunch of engines and guns to it, and that's really awesome and all, but I bet you that I could fly rings around that metal box with the Normandy," Joker said.
"And the fact that they could most likely turn us and the Normandy into very small pieces before you even complete that first ring?" Shepard asked drily.
Joker simply shrugged in response. "Details."
Shepard shook his head before turning back to look at the other ship, which now dominated the entirety of the viewport.
"Dios mios…" James muttered from behind him.
"Look at their guns," Garrus said, pointing at the sides of the ship's hull.
"That would be the one thing you notice," Shepard said, even as he took note of the odd placement of the ship's weaponry. Did they not use mass accelerators as their ship-to-ship weaponry?
"Turians haven't used broadside-style weaponry since well before we left Palaven for space. Yet here's an over seven kilometer long monstrosity using them. Advanced yet primitive, don't you think?" Garrus asked, ignoring Shepard's jab.
"By the look of those guns Garrus, I think primitive is the last word I'd use to describe them," he said, turning to look at the Turian.
Garrus' only response was a twitch of his mandibles as he continued to stare.
"Incoming communication from the ship," EDI said after a moment.
"Patch it through," said Shepard, mentally preparing himself for the imminent meeting.
"Systems Alliance vessel," came a heavily-accented yet undeniably English-speaking voice laced with static and impatience. "You are expected. Land at the following coordinates." With that, the comms fell quiet just as suddenly as they had opened.
"Well, aren't they friendly? Reminds me of Noveria," said Joker as he began to pilot the Normandy towards the designated bay.
Shepard, for his part, could do nothing but wonder as to just what exactly he had landed himself in this time.
Nemros stared at the tiny vessel that had just touched down before him within one of the Shadow's enormous hangar bays, the ship seemingly taking up no space whatsoever. Was this the best that humanity could construct here in this reality? Even the Defence Monitors employed by the Imperial Navy to safeguard unimportant worlds from pirates and minor raids were three times larger than this ship, and those were incapable of Warp travel. But perhaps he was wrong, and this ship was built for diplomacy rather than war.
To his left stood Epistolary Vargus, still weak from his ordeal and only able to stand thanks to his force staff, while on his right stood the massive adamantium-clad form of Honored Brother Arathen, his friend, mentor and once-superior. Behind him were Brother-Sergeant Thram and his squad. So it was that seven Astartes found themselves forcing back millennia of hatred and centuries of combat experience when they beheld the forms descending from the lowered ramp of the ship and onto the Shadow's blessed deck.
Xenos. Three of them to be exact, accompanied by two traitors. The hilt of Defiance squeaked alarmingly as Nemros' shaking ceramite-clad hand tightened around it in a crushing vice. Decades of hypnotherapy rushed to the forefront of his mind, flooding his view with images of xenos slaughtering humans, enslaving them, or dragging them off to do innumerable and unspeakable things to them. Centuries of hate screamed at him to act, to order Thram and his squad to cut these creatures down while Defiance drank deeply of the blood of the traitors.
For a moment, he teetered. Hate fought against rationality; zealotry warred against reason. All the while he and the other Marines continued to stare, seeing the blasphemous forms and their cohorts approach ever nearer.
With a monumental force of will, he managed to drive back some of the disgust that threatened to overwhelm him. He had made his decision to aid these humans already, and as he had told himself then, they were not his humanity. All he could do was act, and hope that when he died, the Emperor would not abandon his soul for his heretical decision, as far away from Him as he was already.
So when the five individuals came to a halt before him, he did not draw Defiance from its sheath and cut them all in half in one smooth motion. Instead, he choose to simply say, "In the name of the Immortal Emperor who sits forever upon the Golden Throne, and in the name of the Imperium of Man, I greet you."
Shepard was shocked. He had come expecting to have to beg, to plead, to have to unleash all of his legendary persuasive skills upon these newcomers in the hopes of coaxing them to their side, and they had simply agreed to do so after he had explained the nature of the threat of the Reapers. Perhaps he had come to expect otherwise after years of denials, but the acceptance was most certainly a nice change of pace for him.
"That's it?" he asked incredulously. "You want nothing in return?"
"Nothing," boomed the one who had identified himself as Brother-Captain Nemros. "There will be provisions of course."
"Of course," Shepard said eagerly. Things had gone so well so far that he was more than willing to grant the giants a few wishes.
"First, there will be no exchange of technology. Our equipment is sacred to us, and will not be defiled by the hands of those unworthy to wield it."
The excessive religious dogma had been a real shock to him. He had thought that the old religions of Earth had largely died out after the discovery of the Prothean ruins on Mars, but clearly some people had clung to their faiths more intensely than others. Shifting through it all required some mental gymnastics, but Shepard thought he was gradually becoming more adept at doing such.
"Second, while we will fight alongside you, the only souls allowed aboard this vessel will be ours."
"Very well. Anything else?"
"Yes. The secrets that involve our transformation shall remain such: secrets. There will be no questions asked, no spies trying to steal our knowledge. The genecrafting that the Emperor used to create our predecessors at the beginning of the Great Crusade will remain in its rightful hands."
Great Crusade? A genecrafting Emperor? Transformation? Questions raced back and forth in his mind as he contemplated the titans that loomed over him.
"What exactly are you?" John Shepard, mortal Savior of the Galaxy, asked the power armor-clad figures that dominated the room that they stood in.
"We are the Space Marines of the Iron Sentinels Fifth Company, and through our duty and through our deaths we are bound to the protection of humanity," the god of war reverberated.
Vargus watched impassively as Shepard shuffled out of the room after the debate over whether or not the Iron Sentinels would aid the Systems Alliance in their war against these so-called Reapers, having only half-focused on the deliberation. Idly, he mentally congratulated the Captain on his successful verbal sparring. He never thought the man would be one with a penchant for diplomacy. But then, the Captain was a Space Marine, a leader amongst his Brothers and a god to the mortal citizens of the Imperium, so perhaps such surprise was unwarranted.
It appeared that mankind had a penchant for fighting genocidal Abominable Intelligences, no matter the reality. Brother Manswell had once shared a tale from his training by the priests of the Red Planet about the Men of Iron, the sentient mechanical guardians of humanity during the Dark Age of Technology that had allowed humans to focus solely upon their religion of unchecked scientific progress. These same protectors that had once faithfully defended their creators later turned upon them, slaughtering humans in the untold trillions across tens of thousands of worlds before mankind was barely able to defeat them, ushering in the downfall of mankind's first great civilization and the Age of Strife. While these Abominable Intelligence were different, they still had one objective: to destroy all life. Little wonder then that the Emperor, in all of His wisdom, had placed a ban on such creations.
Look at them, so helpless and unsuspecting, so naïve. Why do you hold back, Vargus?
The Epistolary gritted his teeth, forcing his mental shields to extend even deeper into his mind. He no longer had the same depth of control over his power that he once had, something he suspected the Voice to be directly responsible for. Many times now his hand had drifted towards the bolt pistol holstered at his waist, determined to prevent himself from becoming a danger to his Brothers, but each time he had stayed it. For now he could continue to serve, while Nemros still needed his advice. However, should the daemon become more insistent in its advances he would not hesitate to do what had to be done.
The Voice let out a deep, rolling laugh that filled every inch of his mind. I hold myself back for now, little Vargus, so that you may have the chance to accept the honor of becoming Secondborn. But do not think you can keep yourself from me forever. I will take what is rightfully mine.
Eyes closed, fists clenched, and limbs shook as Vargus poured everything into driving back the daemon into the recesses of his mind. He was a Space Marine, a member of the Emperor's Finest. He would not yield to this unholy creature, no matter the cost.
"Brother?" came a voice from in front of him. "Are you alright?"
Opening his eyes to the slightly concerned face of Nemros, he relaxed his efforts, knowing that the beast had been driven back for now. "I am fine," he lied, "though still somewhat weak."
"If you insist. Come, we must tell our Brothers of what we have learned today and how we must proceed as a result."
"By your command Brother," Vargus said as he gave the room one last look. Though he had not given the negotiations had his undivided attention, he had been correct when he had advised Nemros. They had reached a crossroads, and the only thing they could do now was fight.
He just hoped that they had the strength to see this fight through to its bitter end.