Chapter 17: The Greatest of Them All
The Duty's Shadow erupted from the Warp with all the usual grace that accompanied a translation from the Empyrean. Feral tribesmen, descended from crewmen lost amidst the winding tunnels and scattered across forgotten decks, would suffer from haunting nightmares for days, while scores of servitors went rogue and battled each other mindlessly while their techpriest overseers ruthlessly ran calculations as to how to improve upon the next batch that they would grow to replace the ferals. As the rift to unreality slid closed behind the Shadow, the Navigator dispatched a message to the command deck, informing the Shipmaster of another successful Warp jump.
Nemros, for his part, was busy holding council with his chief officers amidst the carefully controlled chaos of the command deck, receiving and processing reports from the Shipmaster with one enhanced ear, while the other focused on the words of Techmarine Manswell, who stood in front of him.
"At the current rate of expenditure," Manswell was extrapolating in the stilted, technical way of speaking characteristic to all sons and daughters of Mars, "Our ammunition supplies will last us four years, Terra standard, regarding small arms and heavy weapons. Three months with regards to shipborne armaments. Expect that duration to decrease as further engagements are conducted more frequently. Promethium supplies estimated to last eight months, while need for replacement of equipment parts and power armor pieces will increase exponentially overtime."
"Is there anything you can salvage? Anything that you can do to increase the amount of time?" Nemros pressed the red-clad Techmarine.
A long burst of static and binary slipped out from Manswell's vox-grill, as if Nemros had just blasphemed against the Omnissiah. Given the sometimes strange views that the scions of the Red Planet held regarding technology, he could very well have. "Power armor will be the easiest to replace. We managed to salvage several suits worth of parts from our fallen brothers, and a number more are easily repairable," Manswell said after a moment. "The Shadow has limited production facilities aboard, but for anything approaching serious resupply we would require a working forgeworld and a planet dedicated to the extraction of promethium."
"And such requirements are not so easily fulfilled. Very well. Xeras, you said you-"
"Captain," interrupted Davriel from atop his command throne, "We have a message coming from the Citadel, marked as highest priority."
Nemros snorted in response. "And what do those xenos want from us now?" he demanded.
"They request your presence in their Council chambers. However," the Shipmaster's eyes narrowed as he parsed the message further. "They wish for you to listen to an attached transmission first. They claim that it will help you understand why they request you meet with them immediately."
"Xenos playing at the role of illuminated beings," scoffed Xeras. "Such arrogance. I had not realized that the Eldar took over during our absence."
"Play it," Nemros said, silencing Xeras with an upheld hand. "Let us hear what has them so riled up."
Davriel nodded, gesturing towards one of the Chapter serfs stationed at the comms section of the command deck. The man pressed the blinking rune on his station, and the words that emitted sent silence spreading through the command deck as all activity stopped to listen to the message.
The command deck practically exploded with a riot of emotions after it finished, while Nemros captured the gaze of Xeras and Manswell. No words were needed as the three of them headed off towards the hangar.
Treachery.
The thought was unthinkable, yet the evidence that surrounded him was undeniable. The blood of sworn Brothers comingled about his ceramite-shod feet, while war cries and the roars of chainswords and bolters split the air with their fury. Stalking through the halls of the Luna's Reach, he made his way deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Strike Cruiser, searching for the cause of this madness.
A legionnaire leapt for him, tearing past the falling form of one of his former Brothers to reach him, chainaxe screaming as it sought to devour his lifeblood. Ducking beneath the blow, he grabbed the other Astartes' arm, holding it still while thrusting his own weapon up into the warrior's armpit, where the joint in the armor left him vulnerable. Gore sprayed through the air as his chainsword found its way into the Astartes' twin hearts, snuffing out his life in an instant.
Seeing the sudden and brutal death of his comrade, another legionnaire rushed in without hesitation, shouting oaths of vengeance as he did. Raising his pistol, the Centurion put two bolts into the Astartes' chest plate, blasting out great chunks of ceramite and flesh, stopping his reckless charge cold. The traitor was sent crashing to the floor with a roar of pain and a clatter of power armor.
Stomping over, heedless of the assorted entrails that were beginning to flow from the gaping chest wound, he reached down and yanked the traitor's head upright, forcing him to face him.
"Where is he?" he bellowed, tightening his hold until bone creaked beneath his grip. "Where is that treacherous whoreson?"
The other warrior coughed, sending a mouthful of rich blood trickling down his face and onto the floor. "Further in," he gasped, "Near the Warp drive, you bastard. May he send your soul screaming to the Dark Gods!"
"There are no gods, you delusional bastard," said the Centurion before dropping the other Astartes and bringing his foot down onto his skull, producing a very satisfying crunch.
With a glance, he looked up, casting his gaze down the corridor leading him towards his destination. Taking a moment to load another clip into his bolt pistol, he set off once more, determined to find answers.
To say Nemros strode into the Council chambers would be an understatement. The pair of Turians standing guard over the entrance were practically bowled over by the hulking forms of the trio of black, gray, and red Astartes, only a last second scramble backwards saving them from being trampled.
"Ah, Captain Nemros," Sparatus said graciously, diplomatically choosing to overlook the manner through which the Astartes had entered. "It is good to see you again. The news that we have received from Nova Terra are-"
"Throne," hissed Nemros as he came to a halt before the raised platform upon which the Councilors stood, "Emperor preserve me from your unending false pleasantries xeno. You know why I am here. Tell me."
For a moment, Sparatus was left flustered by Nemros' brusqueness, causing Tevos to sweep in to pick up where her colleague had been cut off. "As he was saying," she said sharply, "We appreciate what you did on Nova Terra. All of it, even the regrettable ending. To say that the common people of the galaxy are talking about you who be woefully inadequate."
Nemros grunted, before gesturing for her to continue. He had heard nothing but endless platitudes ever since their arrival at the Citadel, his path to the Citadel Tower lined by those cheering the arrival of a hero, one who had done more than simply fight. In their eyes, he was a god of war, leader of other titans that strode the battlefield, bringing destruction and salvation alike.
For his part, he simply could not care less what naïve traitors and xenos thought of him. All that mattered was that he be told about these newly arrived Imperials.
"But let us not waste any more time, yes? We all know why you came, and with such haste."
"The transmission," Nemros demanded. "When?"
"Shortly after you departed for Nova Terra, we received a faint transmission at one of our comm relays out near the borders of Terminus Space," Sparatus explained, having recovered from earlier. "The technicians who heard it first could not understand it, so they passed it on the STG, who did manage to translate it. After that," he gestured to Valern, "My colleague here shared it with the rest of us."
Valern nodded with thanks at the acknowledgement, and then Tevos began to speak. "We wish to show you that we, despite all your provocations, are not your enemy." With that, she held up one arm, and the hololithic display that Nemros understood to be characteristic of omnitools sprung to life. "I have transmitted the coordinates that we extracted from the message to your ship, Captain. Again, we have Councilor Valern and the STG to thank for that. It is my understanding that matching such coordinates to our own star charts was much more complicated than simply translating."
"Thank you," Nemros gritted out, bile pooling in the back of his throat as he fought to force the words out past a rebellious tongue.
"We only have one thing to ask of you, Captain, in return," said the Turian Councilor, the sudden interjection the only thing keeping him from tearing out of the room and ordering Davriel to prepare the Shadow for immediate departure.
"And what, pray tell, is that?" he said in a tone laced with annoyance.
The Enginarium was a scene ripped directly from a charnel house. The red robed forms of the Martian techpriests were scattered about, most of them dead, while others fought each other, locked in combat that was only half physical. Servitors stumbled about, tearing into each other with power weapons and heavy weaponry that had replaced entire portions of their bodies.
The Centurion ignored them all, eyes focused upon the sole figure that stood out amongst all the rest. Stepping over the unmoving forms of two Martian Adepts, their cybernetically-enhanced bodies twinned together in death, he advanced, blood boiling with rage at the sight of the instigator of all this madness.
A pair of pale-skinned brutes stepped forward, vat-grown amalgamations of flesh and circuitry. One raised an arm that terminated in a massive claw, seeking to crush him between the pincers. Sliding past the blow, he tore the battle servitor's arm off in a gout of blood and machine lubricant, before impaling the staggering menial with its own weapon. The other staggered forward, undeterred by the grisly death of its comrade, before the Centurion put a bolt into its skull, sending gore and gray matter everywhere.
"Ekron!" he screamed as he turned his gaze back towards the instigator of this insanity, his voice amplified by his Mk. IV helmet's vox emitter until it was a guttural roar. It was a roar of pain, hate, betrayal, and sorrow at all that had been lost, a roar more fittingly found within the mouths of animals than men.
The power armored figure turned at the sound. "Ah, Thraes," Ekron said in dismissive tones. "I should have figured it was you coming."
"What, in the name of the Emperor, do you think you're doing?" Thraes demanded, never relenting in his advance. One hand dropped to his chainsword.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" drawled Ekron as the Astartes Captain pulled his chainsword from his waist.
"It looks like you have gone mad, and we will all pay the price for your treachery."
"Madness?" asked Ekron with a sneer, "Treachery? You dare to speak to me of such things? You, who calls upon an Emperor that abandoned us to go play in the Imperial Dungeon while we fight and die amidst the uncaring cosmos?"
"I will hear no more of this slander!" snapped Thraes, raising his chainsword and letting its throaty roar fill a room that was becoming progressively more silent as more and more techpriests fell beneath weaponry both exotic and mundane in nature.
"Truth is not slander!" roared Ekron in return, nearly deafening in volume. "It is because of your willing blindness that I ordered this, yours and everyone else who would rather kowtow to mortals than follow our father. It is because of Astartes like you that the coming battle, the coming war, will be necessary at all!"
"Our father would never condone this," Thraes said before slamming his chainsword down onto Ekron's.
"If you truly believe that," Ekron huffed in bitter amusement as he forced Thraes backward, "Then you are even more blind than I imagined. Truly he will thank me for what I have done here today."
The two Astartes clashed, chainswords throwing sparks about wildly every time they met. Thraes stepped back, barely avoiding a strike that would have taken his head cleanly from his shoulders. It was stupid of him, he knew, fighting Ekron like this. The Company Captain was more skilled than him with a blade and had decades more experience than him to draw upon. But by this point his rage surged through his blood with all the force of an erupting volcano, and he refused to back down from his Brothers' killer.
As their blades crossed again, he let go with one hand and reached down to his hip, pulling the bolt pistol holstered there upwards. Snapping off a shot in the direction of his opponent's face, he forced Ekron to dodge and place himself on the defensive.
But the missed shot had more consequences than just that as it sailed off into the darkness of the Enginarium, in the direction of the Warp drive.
"Absolutely not."
The silence left in the wake of that pronouncement was impressive, given the looks that the xenos councilors were directing at him. The Asari councilor, Tevos, looked like she had bitten into an Istalsisan puckerfruit, while the Turian, Sparatus, shot him a glare of disappointment. Of the three, only the Salarian, Valern, looked like he had expected such a response, having carefully schooled his facial features into the perfect study of neutrality.
"When first we spoke on this station, you asked for the opportunity to study our technology, and were rebuffed," Nemros said, shaking his head as he did. "Do you take me for a fool, Councilors? Do you believe me swayed by your honeyed words and your offers of so-called friendship? We all know what you truly desire from this demand. For us to accept your assistance in recovering those who claim to be from the Imperium."
"And what, Captain," Sparatus spat his title venomously, "Is that?"
"Power," he responded. "You may cast it however you like. Perhaps," here his tone took on a grudging note," You truly do wish to claim our tech-lore, to utilize it to help your people. To destroy the Reapers without mercy. But simply because I am Astartes does not make me blind to what you would do with it after the Reapers are gone. Your races would seek to propel themselves above the rest, to squash the galaxy, to bring humanity, beneath your heel." Nemros jabbed a ceramite-clad finger at the trio, and they recoiled instinctively at the gesture. Fighting to keep the pleasure he felt from such a response from xenos out of his tone, he continued, "And at the forefront of it all would be the individuals responsible for acquiring such marvels of technology: you three."
The hand dropped back to his side. "I will not allow it, no matter how much you may rage otherwise."
"And why," Valern asked, speaking for the first time since the meeting had started, "Do you believe that? Why do you fear that we will pursue such a direction with your technology?
"Such is the way of the universe. Hear this, and hear this well, Councilors." Here Nemros paused, unsure if he wanted to say what he was about to say. Not because he feared the truth, far from it. But rather because such momentous truths seemed almost quaint when a mortal, even an Astartes, spoke them. As if mere words failed to convey the enormity of the truth behind them. "There is only war unending amongst the stars, the endless shedding of blood. It is the nature of Man and xenos alike, and no fanciful declarations to the opposite will ever change that."
"Your rampant violence is no surprise to us," Tevos said, eyes narrowing. "Do not think we have forgotten how you murdered Udina in his own office, while he was defenseless. And do not dare to presume we are like you."
"You are correct, even if only in one respect," Nemros said. "We are nothing alike. And if you mourn the loss of a poisonous viper in your midst, then you are even bigger fools than I imagined you to be."
The xenos bristled at that, even Valern's serene façade cracking. Nemros did not care. If they thought he would simply roll over for them and surrender the technological lore of humanity like the System Alliance leaders had, then they were gravely mistaken.
"It is only because of the greater threat that looms over us that I will overlook this offence. But know this, Councilors: there will be a reckoning between humanity and you, when all this is over, should you continue to pursue such a course," Nemros said as he turned to leave, gesturing for his Brothers to follow.
The universe was ending, and it was tearing him apart molecule by molecule.
Thraes had no idea what had truly happened, but he had a sneaking suspicion that his missed shot was the cause of it. One second he had been dueling his former Captain, determined to take his revenge even if it cost him his life in the process, and the next there had been a torrential outpouring of Warp energies. With a sound akin to the scream of a thousand dead futures, the Warp drive had been engulfed in a burst of unlight, before it blasted outwards across the ship.
For one eternity, condensed into the briefest of moments, all of the universe's basic laws were undone. The dead walked once more, healthy and hale, though the only noises they emitted were pained and disbelieving shrieks as their souls were torn from the Warp and forcefully re-implanted in their mortal shells, while adamantium aged into dust before reforming a heartbeat later as if nothing had happened. Through it all, he endured, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out from the pain.
The pain was good. It helped him focus. Before Nikea, before the Emperor, beloved by all, had restricted the usage of psychic powers, one of the Legion's Librarians had explained one of few fundamental truths that governed the Great Ocean: that those with the will and power to mold it could, though such things were only found simultaneously within a few gifted individuals.
Thraes was no psyker, but he could focus as well as any Astartes could. And now, he channeled all of his focus to keep his body under his control, to keep it unchanged.
Another surge of pain, and his concentration nearly slipped. To his shame, he screamed, long and loud, though at the moment he cared not for the loss of composure. Focusing on the act of announcing his agony to the Warp helped center him once more.
What a miserable stroke of fortune it was, he pondered, to die here. He, who had stridden a hundred worlds, bringing them the illumination offered freely by the Great Crusade, who had personally overseen the extermination of four different xenos breeds, who had been personally commended by his father to the jealous stares of his Brothers for his actions, was about to die a gloryless death.
And then, just as suddenly as it had occurred, it was all over. The tides of the Empyrean withdrew, leaving the most curious sensation of his body trying to reassemble itself in the face of reality's unyielding dictates.
Then the pain hit once more, and this time Thraes's vision turned black.
The Duty's Shadow plowed through the roiling tides of the Warp. Even here, the Navigator had explained to Nemros when the two had briefly spoken after their arrival in this galaxy, despite the absence of the Dark Gods, despite the constant fighting that characterized their own galaxy, the Warp was still turbulent.
No matter how much some things changed, the more others remained the same. The Navigator had theorized that such tides were inherent to the nature of the Empyrean, merely being magnified rather than resulting from the presence of the Chaos gods. And now…
Nemros glanced at the massive bulkhead separating himself from the Navigator's chambers, where the prematurely aged, deceptively frail-looking wisp of a man steered the Shadow through the Warp towards the destination that the Council's coordinates had placed the Imperial beacon at.
The message itself, delivered to him and Vargus had been little more than gibberish to his mind, riddles half shouted and half screamed by the man as the Shadow plunged into the Warp, dutifully recorded by the servitor scribe that stood by the man's side. Madness rendered into words into revelations.
"He is not wrong. Momentous events are stirring, the effects of which stir the tides of the Sea of Souls."
Nemros glanced at the blue-clad Epistolary by his side. "Vargus?"
Vargus grit his teeth before responding, as if in pain. Given the effects that Warp travel took upon psychically sensitive individuals and the Navigator's claim, it would not surprise him if the Librarian was. "But there is something else, something hidden from even my second sight. Some terrible and most foul laughter that obscures something of fell importance, something that could damn us all before the end."
Nemros' hand shifted, coming to a rest on Defiance's hilt, body ready to move in a moment if necessary. "Do not delve into those paths, Vargus. Such knowledge only leads to madness."
Vargus inhaled deeply, then exhaled before responding, as if purging himself of some great burden. "I know, Brother-Captain. Such is the keystone of all psyker training. But even without exploring such trails through the Warp, the mere fact that they exist is enough to warn me that before all of this is over, we will be tested as we have been only a few times now."
The Librarian closed his eyes before finishing. "It, and the knowledge of it, will break us."
"We are of the Tower, Brother. Nothing will break us, until the end of time itself." Nemros was glad he had his helmet on, to mask the furious expression that split his face.
"This, I fear, will."
He had no idea how much time had passed before his eyes opened once more.
Thraes pushed himself up with an agonized moan. Glancing upwards, he found himself accompanied only by corpses. Part of him was glad that no one was here to witness his weakness, but the rest of him realized just how bad the situation was with the Luna's Reach's tech-priest compliment decimated. Of Ekron there was no sign, no trace that the mad captain had ever even existed.
Thraes coughed, filling the inside of his helmet with a rich coppery tang. Fighting the urge to tear the armor piece off, he instead sent a mental urge, opening the vox link.
"Whoever is still loyal," he gasped before stopping momentarily. A surge of white filled his vision, brought on by a soul-searing surge of agony, before receding, leaving nerves aflame in its wake. Biting back a scream, he pushed on. "Report," he demanded, "Who is still alive that claims fealty to the Throne?"
"Captain?" a voice came a moment later, and Thraes' twin hearts beat a flood of relief into his limbs. Rylais, he recognized the Sergeant's voice. If Rylais was still alive, then not all was lost. "Captain, where are you?"
"The Enginarium," Thraes groaned as he forced himself to his feet, "Something happened."
"I believe we all realized that the moment the ship flooded with Warp energies."
"No," he said, his voice coming steadier and steadier with each syllable forced past his lips. "Something else. Something I must discuss with you as soon as possible."
A moment passed as Rylais took that tidbit in. "Very well," he said finally, "My squad and I – what's left of it at least – are moving to secure deck seventeen. There are still reports of scattered fighting going on down there. Once we complete our sweep, I will make my way towards the command deck."
Thraes swallowed a groan of pain and effort as he bent down to retrieve his battered chainsword. "Understood. Be careful down there Rylais."
"You, out of all of us, are the absolutely last Astartes to say something like that," came the response before the vox link closed.
Closing his eyes to the last remnants of the Warp-induced pain, his enhanced physiology having already moved to begin healing what it could, Thraes began to move towards the Enginarium's exit, keeping his eyes closed the entire time. Yet despite his efforts to block out the carnage that surrounded him, his mind continued to replay the madness that he had witnessed.
"Throne," he hissed as the Enginarium's bulkhead rumbled shut behind him. "What a mess."
"Does he suspect?"
Rylais turned around, double checking that the vox link had truly closed before responding. The legionnaire that had asked the question was flicking gore off his combat knife and onto the body of the loyalist that he had killed. "Highly doubtful. Thraes has always been too single-minded for his own good. However, that does not mean any of you," here he paused, bringing his chainsword up to sweep it across the seven assembled legionnaires facing him, "are to do anything, anything, that might tip him off. Am I understood?"
Six of the seven nodded immediately, with the seventh following suit a moment later, almost reluctantly. Satisfied, he continued. "Our time will come, Brothers, have no worries. Ekron was a fool, acting as he did. If we are to redeem ourselves in the eyes of our father, we must act carefully."
Another round of nods. "Good," he said, satisfied, "continue the sweep, and let us see if we cannot find any others who are followers of the rightful master of mankind."
Death. Death and the ruination of mankind.
The sight of his Brothers broken, those unwilling to follow the rest into damnation sacrificed on altars to the True Gods, while humanity is thrown into the maw of the abyss wholesale, screaming in joy and horror the entire way down. And above it all presided himself, his form swollen to monstrous proportions as he looked on pridefully, gleeful that he was responsible for all of it.
You fight, but inside, you know it to be true. You know that I speak no lies, not to you. Not to us.
No matter how much he tried to fight it, the Voice would not relent. It had not, ever since they had left the Citadel for the second time, on the fool's hope of finding those who would stand beside them without hesitation. Who would understand just what needed to be done in order to bring the Emperor's Light to this galaxy.
Yet for Vargus, there had been no false comfort by hope. The Voice would not even give him the cruel, poisonous gift of hope to torment himself with.
Hope is a lie. You pride yourselves on such knowledge, but when the reality comes face to face with you, you shudder and turn away, hoping to hide yourselves from the cruel truth of the universe. Who is stronger, those who acknowledge and accept such truth, despite how broken it leaves them, or those with the will to turn away and try to create their own hope?
Reckoning approaches in the form of the rejected, Vargus. Those who thought themselves foremost amongst the servants of the Gods, before their hubris was shattered by the failure of the Sacrificed King. Before they were hunted to the corners of the God's domain, driven to the brink of extinction.
Soon, all will be revealed.
I wonder…
How loudly will the galaxy scream in horror at the revelation?
In the depths of the Duty's Shadow, Vargus shuddered, and had his eyes opened for him.
"My lord," protested the comm officer, the senior officer left aboard the drifting hulk that was the Luna's Reach. "Such a plan is suicide. I may be no tech-priest, but even I can tell that such a course of action runs the risk of overloading the plasma reactor. Even if it doesn't blow us all up, we'll be left without power for who knows how long."
"Do not question him, mortal," snapped Rylais from beside him, "Your duty is to serve, nothing more. Carry out your orders."
Thraes held up one hand diplomatically. "Peace, Rylais," he ordered, "What he says has merit." The comms officer looked inordinately relieved at that, his spirit bolstered by Thraes' seeming acquiescence to reality. The next words to leave the Centurion's mouth, however, quickly and pitilessly crushed that relief.
"However, it does not matter. We can risk a swift death from the plasma reactor, or a slow one from isolation. Send the message across all frequencies. Do whatever you have to in order to boost the signal, and damn the consequences to the ship," he ordered. "We must make contact, no matter the cost. Unless you feel like personally explaining to the primarch why we were lax in returning to his side, lieutenant?"
"My lord," stammered the comm officer as he snapped a hasty salute before stumbling away.
"An astropathic signal would stand a better chance of getting out," Rylais said neutrally from beside him. "A message transmitted through space will take months, years even, to reach the nearest Imperial outpost."
"The astropaths are dead. We will simply have to make do," Thraes said as he moved to exit the command deck. Rylais' voice stopped him before he could exit.
"Sir," said the Sergeant behind him. "What did the Captain say when you confronted him? Did he say exactly why he and our Brothers betrayed us, beyond that nonsense about our father?"
Thraes closed his eyes momentarily before opening them once more. "Nothing," he said with a tone of finality. "Nothing but empty words and meaningless riddles."
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the ruined command deck.
They had finally arrived.
Orbiting a dead world scoured clean by a dying star was the bulky form of an Astartes Strike Cruiser, though it was of an ancient design that Nemros struggled to recognize. Edging closer over the course of several hours, cautious of any potential trap, the Duty's Shadow was now only a few thousand kilometers away from the gracelessly twirling adamantium hulk, practically a stone's throw in terms of space warfare.
"All weapons are primed and ready to fire at a moment's notice," Davriel reported from his place upon the command throne. "Auspex scans are returning now."
"And?" Nemros asked, turning away from the viewport to face the Shipmaster.
"The ship is dead," Davriel said in his flat mechanical monotone. "Not even a whisper remains of its machine spirit, and practically no energy beats from its plasma reactor. Whomever sent that distress message might very well be long dead by this point."
"We must hope, Shipmaster," Nemros said as reports began to filter across his helmet's visor. Taking a moment to read through them, he dismissed them with a thought before returning his attention to Davriel. "They may be our only hope of finding reinforcements within this damnable galaxy."
"Perhaps."
Nemros blinked, before turning to face the Shipmaster fully. "Perhaps?" he repeated, not fully understanding what Davriel had meant by that single word.
"I do not recognize the make of that Strike Cruiser," Davriel pointed out the viewport as he spoke, "Something I find very suspicious, considering how I make a point to familiarize myself with all Astartes and Imperial Navy vessels and their capabilities. This, though, has too many dissimilarities with Astartes Strike variants known to be currently in service. Whomever it belongs to, it is most certainly not a modern design."
"And you think that could mean trouble," the Captain said as he turned to fully consider the Shipmaster's words.
"This whole galaxy is nothing but trouble, and delights in heaping more upon us with every breath we draw," Davriel said. For a moment, Nemros could make out the underlying weariness pervading the man's very being. He sympathized. Ever since their unexpected arrival, everything had become progressively worse, something that burdened even him and his Brothers. He had no idea how the mortals were coping. The burden had to be immense. "Furthermore, we cannot make out any markings or Chapter insignia on its hull. There are evident signs of battle damage, but none of which lines up with known xenos or Chaos weaponry."
"Chaos weaponry rarely leaves anything approaching regularity when it comes to battle scars, given the foul nature of such armaments," Nemros said, though he understood internally what the Shipmaster was aiming at imparting to him.
"But such weapons, as blasphemous as they might be, are still human in nature at their core," Davriel said. "These marks look nothing like what human ships, be they Imperial or heretic, might leave in their wake."
"Then I will make sure to take care. Maintain this position, be ready for anything," Nemros said, before turning and exiting the command deck. Opening a vox link to the rest of his Brothers, he began choosing those who would follow him over onto the ostensibly Imperial vessel.
"They come."
Thraes turned around from where he stood within the Luna's Reach's armory. Normally he would have simply handed over his wargear to a techmarine for repairs and upkeep, but now he had to make do by himself. The sight of the impassive ceramite snout that graced Rylais' Mk. IV helmet greeted him as he completed the motion.
"Imperials?" he asked.
"Aye, a battle-barge by what few auspex returns that we could make out before the machine spirit gave out entirely."
"So," Thraes said after a few moments of silence, "The Luna's Reach is no more, then."
Rylais said nothing, letting the void in the conversation say all that was needed.
"She will be missed," Thraes continued in his musings, lost in a dozen different memories, each one dredged up over the course of several decades aboard the Strike Cruiser. "And not the end I would have wished for her." Shaking his head slightly, he refocused upon Rylais. "You have called them together?"
"Yes, Centurion. The other Imperials are making towards the portside hangar, so I have ordered our Brothers to assemble in parade formation there."
"Good. Let's not keep them waiting then, shall we?"
The Thunderhawk rumbled, it's engines echoing its namesake as landing gear extended to grace the adamantium floor of the hangar. Within, Nemros turned to Xeras and Vargus, motioning for them to stand ready. The other two Astartes moved to stand beside him, while behind them a number of their Brothers readied weapons. No one had an idea of what to expect to find behind this derelict hulk, and Nemros was taking no chance.
This galaxy had claimed enough Iron Sentinels, and he would be damned before his incaution killed any more.
There was a pneumatic hiss as the forward ramp began to lower, and false light, dim in its intensity spilled into the hold from the Strike Cruiser's hangar. The trio of Astartes advanced down the ramp the moment it touched the adamantium deck, but the sight that greeted them stopped them cold.
Nigh on sixty Astartes stood before them, various weapons held in perfect parade posture. In the front, an Astartes officer stood, right hand sitting relaxedly upon the pommel of a chainsword, in a mirror of how Nemros' hand rested on Defiance. The other grasped the shaft of what had to be a company banner, richly adorned as it was by battle honors and oaths of vengeance.
Normally, the sight of such a force would have been a welcome one to Nemros. To see such a sight in this new galaxy was one that defied all expectations and hopes that he held within the deepest recesses of his soul. But there was one detail that soured the enormity of the moment, one flaw in the picture that shattered what otherwise would have been an event to rejoice over.
"Cousins," came a gravely voice from the foremost Astartes. "It is good to see Imperials again, Astartes especially, though I must confess I do not recognize your heraldry. From which lineage do you hail?"
Nemros stopped dead at the sight of the stranger's armor. In another moment, one less charged with sudden tension and surging, hateful gene-memories, he might have stopped to appreciate the irony in the two different groups simultaneously puzzling over each other's armor. But for now….
The stranger grunted when Nemros failed to respond. "Fine, remain silent then. It matters not to me if you speak, only that you take my Brothers and I from this place posthaste. Our father calls us to Istvaan III and we must not delay any further than we already have."
Nemros heard him, but his mind utterly failed to process the words that filtered through his helmet, so caught up in his shock and horror was he. The sea green armor, with the slitted Eye placed firmly upon the pauldron armor. And sitting squarely upon the warrior's chest plate, a leering red gem that seemingly stared straight back at him.
The livery of the Sons of Horus, the bastard spawns of the Warmaster.