Chapter 14: The Righteousness Of Our Deeds
Shipmaster Davriel jolted slightly in his command throne as the machine spirit of the Duty's Shadow grumbled fitfully beneath his feet, the massive ship shuddering as it maneuvered its way towards the planet that rotated serenely before him. "Status of the bombardment cannon?" he asked, his mechanical voice abnormally loud as it echoed throughout the subdued air that permeated the command deck.
"Tech-priests are reporting that the cannon is functioning at full capacity," came the report from one of the ensigns. "Magma shell is loading now. Auto-loader is performing without any objections, and estimated time to ready to fire state is five standard minutes."
"Time to firing range?"
"Seven standard minutes, sir," came the voice of another ensign.
"Very well. Send the word to the gunnery officers: if the Reapers make the mistake of approaching us, then make them regret forcing our hand like this."
"Aye sir."
With that, the command deck came alive once more, reports and relayed orders buzzing through the air as last-minute corrections and bombardment readiness alerts went out across the ship. The Shadow hummed eagerly as the command throne came alive with acknowledgements from the various chief gunnery officers throughout the ship, and the hum became a deep roar, an undertone that only he could hear due to his unique connection.
Personally, Davriel doubted that they would see any more combat this day. The Reapers had already won, and the cowardly, despicable machines knew it. They would not risk themselves in battle against the far superior battle-barge, not when it was about to finish their unholy work on this planet for them.
"Shipmaster," said one of the Chapter serfs after a few minutes. "Beginning final approach to the planet now. Tech-priests are reporting that the magma shell is loaded, and the bombardment cannon is ready to fire at your command."
Davriel merely nodded in response, pushing the serf out of his mind as the command throne continually fed information from the ship's auspex array to him. The distance of the Duty's Shadow from the planet, optimal firing ranges, updated locations of the Reapers, who still hung back at the system's edge, as if disbelieving of what the massive warship was about to unleash, before finally the notification that all was ready blinked in his mind's eye. With that, he mentally sent the order through the command throne, knowing that it would be near-instantaneously received by the hundred tech-priests that were assigned to oversee the constant maintenance of the ship-spanning weapon deep within the bowels of the kilometers-long warship. The Shadow's machine spirit was notoriously unreliable with regards to the weapon, requiring that dozens more scions of the Red Planet be stationed aboard the vessel than other, similar battle-barges might have normally carried.
Beneath his feet the deck rumbled in response to his orders, and a dozen cogitators winked in and out as the vibrations disrupted the delicate fibers within the cables that connected them to the machine spirit momentarily. A notification winked to life on his command throne, warning him that the firing of the bombardment cannon had ruptured a dozen bulkheads and damaged a number of other locations as well. He dismissed the rune with a thought, dispatching servitors to repair the damage a moment later. Overall, the damage they occurred was hardly worth mentioning. He had ordered the firing of the bombardment cannon hundreds of times over the course of his service, and by this point such self-inflicted damage was expected.
Davriel forewent the usage of the command throne's uplink node with the Shadow's machine spirit to watch the devastation that he had wrought with his order with his own eyes. Magma shells were massive pieces of ordinance, each one the product of years of careful crafting by tech-adepts of the forge worlds that worked to supply the Imperium's forces, designed to be used against heavily fortified planets in order to soften the defenders up so that the Astartes stationed aboard could then rapidly deploy against their still-dazed foes, still recovering within their fortresses and hiding beneath their void shields, thus taking them completely by surprise.
Deployed as this one was, against a few thousand defenseless refugees that had had their only chance of survival cruelly ripped away from them by the Reapers, was overkill. But the Shipmaster was taking no chances here. He did not want to take the risk of a standard bombardment with the macro weapons aboard the Shadow somehow failing to eliminate all of the civilians below, leaving them to the nonexistent mercies of the Abominable Intelligences. The chance of such an event happening was negligible, but they had already failed them once today. They would not fail them again.
A massive orange fireball bloomed into existence where the shell had impacted the planet, reaching skywards as if it were trying to pull the Shadow into the destruction, in judgment for the failure of its crew today. Spreading outwards, it greedily devoured all that it touched, swaths of green folding before it as it left naught but scorched and blackened earth in its wake. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of devastation but really was only a few minutes, the raging inferno burned itself out at last.
"Bombardment complete," said one of the serfs as the last vibrations finished wracking the ship. "Auspex scans show no remaining human life in the area, and tectonic forces are beginning to fluctuate wildly. Any Reaper forces that might have survived will be gone soon, Shipmaster."
"Good," Davriel said, the word ash upon his tongue. "Set a course for the Mandeville point, we are done here."
"Aye, Shipmaster."
As the enormous form of the Duty's Shadow turned away from the planet that it had helped to kill, Davriel thought back to when he had been young. How he had once dreamed of helping bring peace to the Imperium through his deeds. How naïve he had been then, he thought. No matter where one went, it seemed that only death and destruction followed in his wake.
Perhaps, a small, heretical corner of his mind wondered, this galaxy would have been better off if they had never arrived here. But now he, and everyone else, would never know.
"Bombardment successful, my Lord," came the subdued voice of the Shipmaster over the vox. "The Shadow's augurs are reporting a saturation level of ninety-eight-point-three-four at the evacuation site, and all scans for human life are returning negative."
"Understood," came the heavy word, unwillingly dragged out of his mouth by the demands of duty and mercy alike. "You have set a course away from the planet and towards the rendezvous point?" Nemros asked, turning away from the hololithic displays that littered the strategium that even now were beginning to flood with projected casualty lists. His eye caught the number racing past two thousand before he fully turned away, and he blinked, knowing that the memory was now burned forever in his mind, a constant reminder of their failure here today.
No. Not their failure. His failure. He had been the catalyst for this operation, and so he must shoulder the heavy burden that the outcome of it had cast upon him. To blame others would be more than simply wrong. It would be cowardly and self-blinding. Despite his failings, he would never be so pitiful as to allow that to happen.
Nemros ignored the constant pings that informed him of more and more updates to the information relayed to the strategium. He was not in the mood to go over them. Not now.
"Yes, my Lord," Davriel affirmed. "The Alliance ships are away, and we will reach the system's Mandeville point in one hour. The navigator estimates the journey through the Warp afterwards will take about three days."
"Very well, do not disturb me unless something major occurs," Nemros said.
"Understood, my Lord." With that, the vox link winked out of existence, leaving the Captain alone with his thoughts.
Suddenly there was a ping from behind him, one that sounded subtly different from the dozen that followed it shortly after. Turning around, he could see that the awaiting notification bore the distinct mark of the Apothecarium, and a minor sense of dread flooded his nervous system. Had one of his Brothers been gravely wounded in the battle below? If so, then why had Slenarr waited until now to contact him with a report?
He let the emotions flow out of him. Slenarr, for all that made him the Astartes that he was, was not lax in his duties. Had one of their Brothers fallen, then he would have been made aware the moment that it happened. Ignoring the other notification runes, his hand flicked forward to open Slenarr's rune where it sat, blinking patiently.
What he read inside surprised him, his eyes opening slightly wider at the words inscribed within the message. Turning, he stormed out of the strategium, leaving the holo-screen unattended behind him.
"Consider yourself lucky that the tests have declared them free from taint Kalios, or I would have you reprimanded for this foolishness," Slenarr said, gesturing towards the pair of thoroughly intimidated children that sat on one of the Astartes-sized slabs of metal that were scattered throughout the Apothecarium. "The Company has no time for you to be playing hero. Not when such actions leave us vulnerable to potential Reaper spies. As it is, I will let Captain Nemros decide what to do with you."
"They did not strike me as corrupted at the time, Apothecary," the Assault Marine standing in front of him said, eyes narrowed slightly. "And we were on that planet to save as many humans as we could, were we not?"
"Kalios," Slenarr interrupted firmly. "You know better than to do something like this. You are a veteran of six decades of service, not some fresh-faced neophyte newly inducted into the Scout cadre. We cannot afford to take risks, not when we are as weak as we are now. Moreover, we still have not ruled out their potential as Reaper agents."
"They are not, now are they? Is that not what your scans told you?"
"Do not mock me, Kalios," Slenarr said dangerously, his armor's dormant machine spirit rousing fitfully as anger began to stir within his hearts. "Just because you have been proven correct in your assumption for now does not vindicate you. It is possible that their corruption is too subtle for simple brainwave scans and checks for hidden cybernetics to detect. But you do not care about that, do you? Too focused on your supposed victory now to think about any potential consequences that could prove disastrous later."
"Enough," interrupted a third voice, the lone word echoing across the Apothecarium, carrying over the incessant mechanical tones of the machines within.
All present turned to face the source of the sudden intrusion. Stalking towards them was the armored form of Captain Nemros, thunder in his gaze. "Kalios, you will be respectful towards those with more seniority than you, no matter how much you may disagree with them. Am I understood, Sergeant?"
Kalios bowed his head, unable to meet the Captain's gaze. "I understand, Brother-Captain," he intoned meekly.
Turning to face him, Nemros' gaze was met with the impassive ceramite that made up Slenarr's helmet. "Slenarr, it is beneath you to act in such a manner. I thought you better than such petty behavior."
The Apothecary met Nemros' eyes for a long moment before he too inclined his head slightly, conceding the point and wordlessly promising his compliance.
"Now," Nemros spoke once more after a few moments shifting his eyes between Kalios and Slenarr reproachfully. "You said you had something for me Slenarr? Something vital?"
"Yes," Slenarr said, throat dry as he found himself unsure how to word the momentous news. "These two mortals, these children," he gestured towards the pair of young boys that were practically cowering beside him, "they are…"
Here he swallowed, the act painfully dry as he pushed onwards, all eyes on him. "They are compatible for implantation."
There was a sharp intake of breath from Kalios, and even Nemros looked momentarily taken aback. Slenarr could not blame them, as he himself had been shocked when the Apothecarium's cogitators had fed him the results of the blood test. Throughout the Company there had been a near-unanimous expectation that they were doomed to slowly die out here, their numbers whittled down one by one until no more remained, should a way back not be found. Yet this discovery changed everything.
Nemros' gaze bored down upon him, every other consideration forgotten in this moment. "You are sure?"
Slenarr huffed, allowing himself a moment of indignation. "Of course I am sure," he said haughtily. "I have been implanting gene-seed since before you were even made a battle brother. I am quite-"
"Enough Slenarr," Nemros interrupted. "You have made your point." Nemros shifted his eyes toward the two mortals, staring at them intensely. The pair shifted backwards warily, unnerved by the strength in the Captain's gaze. "They are willing to undergo this?"
"Aye," Kalios said from where he stood. "They claimed that they wanted to become like us when I found them sneaking aboard Thunderhawk Three behind my squad and I."
Silence was the only response that Kalios received to his affirmation. Nemros continued to stare, and Slenarr could feel the balance of fate as it stood balanced on a razor edge. To accept these two would mean more than accepting blood from a location that was not the homeworld, as momentous a decision as that was. It meant the implicit acceptance that the Company was now bound to this galaxy for forever, that no way back was capable of being found. To reject them would mean that the Company would never cease their pursuit of returning to the Emperor's side once more.
"Slenarr," Nemros said curtly. "Your thoughts? Should we grant them the honor of becoming aspirants?"
"We would be fools not to," the Apothecary stated simply. "Despite my inclinations toward the negative, the Emperor Himself knows how much we need new blood to survive this new reality."
Out of the corner of his enhanced eyes, Slenarr could see Kalios shooting him a curious look and rolled his eyes behind his helmet in response. Did the other Marine truly believe him so spiteful and stubborn that he would rather see the Company die out rather than bow before the might of reality?
Suddenly Nemros spoke again, and Slenarr found himself holding his breath in anticipation of the Captain's verdict.
"It is said on the homeworld that courage is the sieve that separates the worthy from the weak. What keeps the blood pure and the mind strong," Nemros said as he towered over the two young humans. The pair stared back at him with wide eyes and bated breaths. "Both of you have shown courage already, first in surviving the horrors that infested your world, and then by determining that you would not be amongst the ones left behind, no matter the method you needed to undertake to survive."
Nemros fell silent, and an expectant void filled the air as mortals and transhumans alike awaited the Captain's judgment. A notification rune appeared on Slenarr's visor, informing him that the smaller of the two mortals was becoming dangerously close to passing out from an exceedingly high mixture of hormones that were racing about their bodies uncontrolled.
"You shall be judged in the manner of the homeworld," Nemros said at last. Slenarr frowned disapprovingly behind his helmet, but held his tongue. This was the Captain's judgment, and he would respect it no matter how much he disagreed. "Should your flesh be strong and your spirit unyielding, then you will undergo the initial phase of ascension. From there, we shall see what the Emperor deems right."
"Captain," Kalios said even as the pair of mortals cheered excitedly, his voice carrying easily over their raucous clamor, "Who shall train them should they succeed? Scout-Sergeant Uvareth died during our journey here."
Nemros shifted at that, tilting his head as he conceded the point. "Indeed, and his skill at training neophytes will be sorely missed." As he finished, however, a gleam entered the Captain's eyes, and he turned to look Kalios dead-on. "In light of his absence, and due to this being the result of your idea, however, I say it is only right that they become your responsibility, is it not?"
Slenarr felt a flash of vindictive glee as a moment of panic filled Kalios' eyes, a small smirk blooming across his lips involuntarily. "Brother-Captain," the other Marine said quickly, clearly hoping to escape his fate, "I cannot. I would not know where to begin, and my squad needs me to lead them."
"You must," Nemros said sternly, gaze shifting to one of adamantium. "As you said, Uvareth is dead, and we must rebuild the Company despite his absence. To lack a Brother capable of training neophytes would be grave indeed. They must learn the ways of the Tower, and Uvareth said you were a quick study when you were under his charge. I trusted his judgment then, and I trust it even now. So, for now, I would have you do this, until one more willing steps forward to fill the void."
Kalios bowed his head, resigned to accepting his fate. "Very well Captain. And my squad?"
"You will still lead them on missions. Make no mistake here Kalios, you are still a full Brother, this is no punishment. While you are deployed, I will have Manswell reprogram a few servitors for them to train with."
"I understand. I will have them undergo the Unyielding Trials immediately."
"See that you do," Nemros said, dismissing the Assault Marine with a nod. Bowing slightly, the other Astartes motioned for the mortals to join him, and the trio moved to leave the Apothecarium while Slenarr and Nemros watched on.
"How compatible are they truly, Slenarr?" Nemros asked after a moment. "Your report mentioned that they were potential neophytes, but we both know that means little until the first organs have been implanted."
"Truthfully?" Slenarr asked. Nemros nodded slightly, eyes never leaving Kalios' back. "The human genome of this galaxy is much underdeveloped in comparison to our own, which has undergone thirty-eight thousand years of divergence, evolution, and mutation more than theirs. They are compatible, it is true, but there is significant risk of the gene-seed being rejected. Over double the chance if they had come from Istalsis. From our galaxy."
"And Istalsian aspirants already suffer from a twenty-seven percent failure rate," Nemros sighed, turning to look at the rows of small containers that lined the walls of the Apothecarium, each one containing legacies that stretched back over millennia. "The Emperor has seen fit to grant us a miracle today, but not without making us depend upon him."
"As always," Slenarr said.
"As always," Nemros agreed.
"Do you think they will ever truly be Sentinels?" Slenarr asked suddenly, a thought niggling away in the back of his mind.
"What do you mean Slenarr?" Nemros said, a slight frown taking up position on his usually impassive face.
"They are not from Istalsis," Slenarr explained, gesturing towards the emblem that was emblazoned upon the far wall, the iconography of the Chapter. "They are not from the Tower, have not endured what we had to." Here he hesitated, before proceeding to the heart of his issue. "They are from here," he said, "where they have lived an existence that, while blasphemous, was still relatively peaceful up until now. We, on the other hand, have been forged to fight a galaxy that has been at war since long before mankind left Terra. Do you think, truly, that they will be able to adjust? Able to be true Sentinels?"
"They will," Nemros said gravely, turning back to look at the now-closed door that Kalios and the two aspirants had departed through. "Or they shall die."
"Slenarr is not without a valid point." Even Thomas could clearly understand the grudging note that permeated every syllable in that sentence. "These Reapers, we do not understand fully how they work, how they corrupt us. I acted hastily, and the price paid could have been disastrous."
"But we aren't. Corrupted, that is," Thomas said quickly. "Even if I don't really understand what that means," he muttered to himself afterwards.
"Yet we had to be sure," Kalios said in response. If he had heard Thomas' aside, then he made no comment on it.
"So, when can we fight?" Caleb demanded after a moment, eyes blazing with a mixture of anticipation and impatience. "That other Sentinel said we were ok, right? So when can we get our revenge?"
Kalios stopped at those words, turning to face the pair of them. Between the sudden attention from the much larger warrior and the steady hum of machinery that reverberated all around them in the corridor, the air suddenly seemed much thicker to Thomas. Tense, even.
"Is that truly what you desire?" the Marine asked quietly. Thomas was surprised. Between the constant thrum of the power plant on the back of the Marine's armor and his resounding footfalls, he had not been sure if the giant was even capable of being quiet. "Revenge?"
"Of course," Caleb blurted out before Thomas could say anything. "The Reapers killed our families and friends. Mom, Dad, my sister. I want…" here he faltered a moment, and Thomas could see the tears that the younger boy was desperately trying to suppress well up, threatening to spill over and outwards. "I want to kill them. All of them."
Thomas put his hand on his friend's shoulder, only to jerk away in surprise when Kalios spoke again, this time directing his attention towards him. "And you?" the Marine asked, still quiet. "What do you want, Thomas of Nova Terra? You told me you wanted to become one of us, but what is it you truly desire, more than anything else?"
"I want…" he began eagerly, about to tell the Marine that he wanted exactly what his friend had said he wanted. He had lost everything to the Reapers, everything except for Caleb. Then the full weight of Kalios' question hit him, and he stopped. What was it that he wanted?
Kalios gazed at him for a moment longer, before his arm began to move. "Tell me, aspirants," he said, left hand reaching up and over until it brushed against the stylized white tower that was emblazoned in stark contrast to the black that covered the rest of his pauldron. "The iconography of the Chapter. What do you think it stands for?"
Thomas and Caleb stood still for a long moment, the pair of them both quietly thankful for the moment to catch their breath and afraid of guessing wrong. Finally, Thomas spoke first. "Endurance?" he asked, throwing his answer out into the open haphazardly, flinching slightly at the possibility of being answered by Kalios' wrath for being wrong.
"Strength?" Caleb asked a moment later, when Kalios did not deign to respond. The Space Marine slowly nodded at that.
"Correct, the pair of you, but you fail to fully grasp what the Unbroken Tower means to us Iron Sentinels, what it means with regards to being an Iron Sentinel," Kalios said, hand dropping back to his side. "On the homeworld of the Chapter, Istalsis, stands the Unbroken Tower, which we carry with us wherever our duties lead us. It was forged in ages past, a mighty bastion against the alien raiders that frequently scourged the planet, taking away thousands of innocent humans with each passing year. In desperation, the people of Istalsis banded together, gathering all their technological lore to forge the Tower, as both a fortress and a city in one pillar of adamantium that stretched forth towards the stars, so that they would not be exterminated underneath the pitiless gaze of the xenos."
"Did it work?" Caleb asked, just as enraptured by the story as Thomas was.
"It allowed them to survive, if that is what you mean," Kalios said, unfazed by the interruption. "At the time, our Chapter was fleet-bound, forever wandering the stars beyond the borders of the Imperium since the days of our Founding. When the Chapter Master of the time came across Istalsis, our fore-brothers shattered the backs of the xenos raiders, eventually wiping them from existence for their heinous crimes against humanity. Impressed by the strength of the mortals, who had endured for so long on their own, the Chapter Master declared that Istalsis would become our new homeworld, and the Unbroken Tower our fortress and symbol. On that day, we shed our former name and heraldry, forsook our previous nomadic existence, and became the Iron Sentinels, while Istalsis became a productive part of the Imperium."
"To carry the Tower, to be an Iron Sentinel," Kalios continued, "requires one to have more than mere strength of arms, or endurance of body. Such things are granted through the process of ascension, through which we become Astartes. No, it requires one to be a symbol, a symbol of hope and unity in a galaxy at war. And that is the hardest burden for any Iron Sentinel to bear, for such a duty requires far more than mere skill with a blade."
"Hope?" Thomas asked, confused by the Astartes' explanation. Unity he could understand, but hope? He had been expected something more along the lines of courage.
"Hope," Kalios affirmed. "The people of Istalsis were shattered in spirit, desperate, before the founding of the Unbroken Tower. Through it, the will of Istalsis was re-forged, and hope was found once more. And just as the Tower was and is, so must we be. Hope to the people of the Imperium, that we keep them safe from the horrors of the galaxy, and hope to the traitor, the heretic, and the xeno, that we might grant them redemption through death."
"And unity?" Caleb asked, a thoughtful expression on his young face. Thomas repressed the growing smirk on his face as hard as he could, extremely doubtful that Kalios would appreciate the emotion. His friend had always been the thinker between the two of them.
"Unity," Kalios rumbled once more, gaze growing strangely thoughtful at the word. "Divided, Istalsis was weak, easy prey for the alien raiders. It was only when they came together that they were able to survive. Likewise, we Sentinels must stand together, for it is through brotherhood that we become unbreakable. We must all stand together, for the galaxy is a harsh, unforgiving place, ready and eager to destroy us the moment even the slightest of cracks forms."
"Wow," he mumbled, the enormity of what he had so eagerly desired beginning to weigh down upon him. He had thought that it would be like what the Alliance did with their military, where he and Caleb would serve for a few years before leaving, but now he could see that he and Caleb were in for so, so much more. The thought both terrified and excited him in equal measures.
"Make no mistake," Kalios said, interrupting his racing thoughts. "You will have your revenge, even if it takes a thousand years, even if it is not you who deals it personally. The Reapers will fall by our hands, but you must think beyond them, to what lies beyond. To truly become an Iron Sentinel, you must learn that while revenge most certainly has its place within us, there is far more to our duty than mere hate."
"But enough history and philosophy," Kalios said after a moment of observing his charges, moving off through the bowels of the ship once more, leaving Thomas and Caleb to race after him once more. "The process of becoming a neophyte is long and arduous, and there is much to do. First, you must survive the Unyielding Trials before I will even consider training you."
"Trials?" Thomas groaned, the aches already present in his body throbbing at the mere word. A small part of his mind wondered if it was too late for them to back out, but he shoved the rogue thought away, dashing after the evermore-distant forms of the Sergeant and his friend. If he gave up now, he would be weak forever, unable to prevent what had happened to everything he had ever cared about from happening again to others. Unable to prevent them from suffering the pain that he had gone through.
And that, he vowed quietly, suddenly knowing what it was that he truly wanted more than anything, was something that he would never let happen. He would never be weak again, not if he could help it.
"Sparatus," came the curt voice of Councilor Valern, splitting loudly through the façade of calm that had lingered over his office like a shroud. Outside, the ever-present hum of aircars was muted, even more so than what the sound-treated glass windows of his office usually dimmed it down to. The attack on the Citadel, and the lingering presence of a few handfuls of Cerberus personnel, had all but brought daily life on the station to a halt.
Sparatus groaned as his talons fumbled for the intercom to respond. What could that Salarian want now? The other Councilor knew for a fact that he was busy trying to sort out the refugee crisis to the best of his ability at the moment, so why was he bothering him now?
"What is it, Valern?" he said wearily, rubbing his mandibles with his hands, trying futilely to relieve the ache that had steadily built up there over the course of the last few hours.
"Are you alone?" the other Councilor asked hurriedly.
The Turian Councilor looked up languidly, knowing full well that he was. Alone with his thoughts, aches, pains, and, most importantly, all the electronic paperwork that had had him performing mental gymnastics nonstop for the past few days. Bitterly, wordlessly, he swore at the Asari and their stubborn refusal to accept any more refugees. As if a few thousand more lost souls would harm the legendary economy that the blue-skinned aliens refused to stop boasting about all the time.
"Only if you're willing to ignore the dust and work that's been piling up ever since the Reapers arrived."
"Good, good," Valern said, completely breezing by the sarcasm that Sparatus had so generously laden into his response. "Received information, very important. Need you in my office right now."
Sparatus sat up slightly straighter in his chair. If Valern, of all people, considered something important enough to dispense with complete sentences, then he was probably about to have his view of the galaxy about to completely change. Again, he thought briefly before pushing the intercom button to respond, halfway out of his chair as he did.
"I'll be there in two," he promised, before cutting the link and hurrying out the door of his office.
Once outside, he brushed past the aides and sycophants that hurried to his side, each individual clamoring loudly for his attention. Inside his mind, a whirlwind of suppositions as to what Valern had for him raced about, each one more ludicrous than the last. Pushing the thoughts aside, he pushed the button for the elevator that would take him to the Salarian embassy, heedless to the muffled calls from his security detail as they tried in vain to push themselves through the crowd of petitioners in order to reach him. Whatever Valern had discovered, he reasoned to himself, would soon be revealed.
Suddenly, the elevator doors in front of him let out of a soft tone, signaling the arrival of the elevator proper. Stepping inside, he was thankful for the sudden rush of silence that surged all around him as the doors closed, the ever-louder petitioners cut off mid-cry. Whoever thought that this job was an honor had clearly never had to perform it, he thought darkly as the floor beneath him jolted slightly.
When the doors opened once more, he was greeted with long, orderly lines of petitioners, and while there was a level of clamor in the air, it was restrained, quite unlike the frenzied mob he had just left behind. Sparatus was not sure whether he envied or hated the typical Salarian efficiency at that moment.
Brushing past a few errant politicians, he made his way inside Valern's office, the door opening when he reached it expectantly. "Alright Valern," he said as he walked towards the lone Salarian in the room, mindful of the fact that every single action of his was no doubt being monitored and recorded. "What was it that was so important? You've already sent me the STG reports from Terra Nova." Coming a halt before Valern's desk, he asked the question that had been nagging him the entire trip here. "Is the reason for this visit related to those reports?"
The Salarian Councilor seemed to have managed to calm down in the time it had taken Sparatus to reach him, evidenced by the fact that Valern's reply came in the form of coherent sentences. "In a matter of speaking, yes. I received this transmission from STG Command twenty minutes ago. It was marked with the highest level of clearance." Valern took a moment to let the enormity of the implications behind that sentence sink in. STG Command marked very few things with such clearance requirements. "Technically, I'm committing high treason by sharing this information with you."
With that, Valern depressed the button on a data-pad, and a thick, rough voice erupted from the speakers on the device.
"This is Centurion Thraes of the Astartes Strike Cruiser Luna's Reach, broadcasting on all known Imperial frequencies. Traitors have damaged our Warp drive and heavily damaged other parts of our ship. Our Navigator and astropaths are dead, along with most of the other mortals and a sizable portion of our Brothers. Requesting immediate evacuation from coordinates enclosed within this message."
Valern looked up at him as the voice began to repeat the message, silencing the speaker as he did so. Silence resounded throughout the room before he spoke again. "That, Sparatus, is what I wanted to speak to you about."
A/N: New year, new update. Hopefully your first day of 2018 was warmer than mine was. Negative 25 Fahrenheit windchill yey.
With this chapter, the Terra Nova arc is over, and the next two chapters will focus on everyone's favorite human supremacist group-turned Chaos worshipers. Stay tuned.
Fun fact: Kalios originally was nothing more than a throwaway character from the chapter Tempest, but after these last two chapters, what do I know? I'm just the guy writing the story. It's rather fascinating how stories write themselves despite whatever inclinations you might have had towards the opposite.
Finally, last chapter brought this story up to 200 faves and over 50k views. I might be starting to sound like a broken record at this point, but once more, thank you to all who've read, reviewed, favorited and followed. It's mind blowing to have a story this successful.