Final Chance

The Scout-Barracks of the Storm Heralds were never quiet. Every hour of every day the training halls rang with the sounds of young boys being pushed to their limits and beyond. Assault courses were run and firing ranges filled with the noise of bolters and shotguns. In dour halls tactical sermons were conducted, glorious chapels rung with prayers and hallowed rituals from antiquity while screams echoed in the Apothecarions, as young bodies were broken and remade. Nearby arcane Hypno-indoctrination devices stamped obedience, fealty and adoration of Him on Terra into the brains of the Scout-Novices. And there were deaths, many, many deaths.

The training and gene-forging of a Space Marine was a perilous and painful process. There was more to it than cutting open prepubescent boys and sowing in the gene-seed. Minds had to be sculpted, skills honed and physical limits surpassed time and time again. The pain and the stress broke all but a handful of recruits, their bodies and minds shattered by the rigours of the ascension. Most died in live-fire exercises, or failed the deadly tests and training drills, falling from great heights, crushed by lethal traps or devoured by monstrous beasts they had failed to defeat, but the worst deaths were gene-seed incompatibilities. These ones died screaming in agony as their bones turned against them, weeping blood from their eyes and hearts seizing as incompatible genetics sealed their doom.

Only one boy in a hundred had the mettle to be selected by the Chapter and of those, only one in a hundred could forge the diamond-hard will and unbreakable zeal needed to ascend. For the failures and washouts, no consideration was given. Space Marines were bound by Brotherhood and kin-blood, but if there was one thing every Astartes in the galaxy agreed upon it was that weakness would not be tolerated. Once selected there was only success or ignominious shame and death. Either way there was no going back, nobody ever got a second chance. Except for one who did.

In a sparring dojo, lines of shuffling Scout-Novices departed, nursing aching bruises and vicious cuts from their free-form melee drill. They were heading back to their billets, for four blessed hours of rest before the next round of drills. In their wake a single neophyte remained. He had been left behind to clear away the blunted weapons and wooden staves used in the combat training. This recruit was far more battered than most, his skin black and blue from repeated assaults. He had been the target of the other neophyte's scorn, getting attacked thrice as often as any other Scout-Novice. He was the lowest in regard of the Tenth Company, held in contempt by all others, which was why he had been left behind to tidy up.

The reason for this scorn was evident, the mass of augmetics buried in his chest and larynx, a bionic respirator that replaced his lungs and voice box. Such replacements were common among the veteran Initiates and heroes of the Chapter, battlefield repairs for honourable wounds taken in battle. Yet for a neophyte to receive such revered tokens was unheard of, they had not earned the glory necessary to merit such rewards. Yet this one was different, his wounds had been taken at the hand of a Chaos Marine but not as a Scout-Novice. He had been a serf at the time, a lowly washout from the training regime, condemned by gene-seed incompatibilities in his natural lungs. His name was Bylan and he was the only soul ever to be given a second chance at entering the Storm Heralds.

Bylan ached as he picked up the various weapons from the padded mats. The room was bare otherwise, fitted only with weapon racks on the walls and servitors in the corners, waiting for him to depart so they could wash the blood off the floor. Bylan did his best to ignore his injuries but it galled him nonetheless. Each bruise was a reminder that he was not accepted in the Tenth Company, he was not truly a Storm Herald. He was an oddity, an outsider and the other Neophytes took pains to remind him of that every day. In all his life only one soul had shown him a modicum of respect, a Sergeant of Ninth Company who had seen his worth: Toran. Toran had took pains to save Bylan's unworthy life, petitioning for his readmittance and promising him a new future, if he could survive the training. Bylan owed that Sergeant everything and he had sworn not to fail his expectations. Bylan was determined to ascend, no matter what pains he had to suffer along the way.

Suddenly there was a shuffle behind him and Bylan sighed as he grasped what was coming. He fitted the weapons into their racks then turned about. Sure enough three neophytes stood behind him, wearing coarse shrifts that matched his own. Like him they were already developing the ginormous frames and muscles of an Astartes and their implantation scars were fresh and livid. They looked upon him with scorn and the leader sneered, "Not done yet worm?"

With a mechanical rasp Bylan replied, "+Must we do this every day Thyim?+"

Thyim's blunt face creased at being addressed so, his features always hard and quick to redden in offence. His fists were bruised, not from the training regime but from where he used them to beat down other neophytes, taking their rations and personal items for himself. Thyim was a brute, accustomed to using his strength to get his way and other Scout-Novices put up with it. Usually because Bylan was the favoured focus of his ire. Why the masters did nothing was a mystery but they let Thyim run wild for their own inscrutable reasons.

Thyim's face reddened as he snapped, "You dare speak to me so!"

Bylan scoffed, "+You're going to hit me regardless, so I can say what I please+"

"Look at him, accepting defeat so readily," sneered Jedda, a thin and weasely Neophyte, ever ready to lurk in Thyim's shadow.

"Perhaps he's ready to die," joked Tregha, a shorter Scout-Novice, used to feasting on Thyim's leavings.

Bylan looked upon the three of them and growled, "+It will take more than your words to kill me+"

"You don't fit here, washout, you don't belong," Thyim growled, "You are offensive to my eyes, you need to be taught a lesson."

Bylan braced himself and snapped, "+I can take whatever you can dish out+"

Thyim's lips pulled back over his teeth as he sneered, "I've been going easy on you so far but no more, today you suffer. Take him."

The three spread out, encircling Bylan and the neophyte's hearts sank as he realised they would attack him as one. Thyim's fists alone had been the bane of Bylan's life but he knew he could survive the beatings, but three on one he stood no chance. This was going to hurt. Thyim stayed to the fore as the other two moved into his blind spots, as they had been taught. Bylan raised his fists and readied for the fight to come, determined to land a few choice blows before it was over. Yet just as Tregha jerked to attack a deep voice rang through the dojo, "DESIST!"

All four of them snapped to attention as they saw the armoured form of Tenth-Captain Judio striding in. The Master of Recruits was a sterling example of an Astartes, grizzled, scarred and bald. His blue plate shone with glorious laurels and campaign badges and his right hand was encased in Power Fist. He loomed over the neophytes, the ultimate example of all they aspired to become and all were set back by his fierce anger and unwavering wroth.

"Attend!" Judio barked and the four fell into line instantly. Judio strode up to them and looked over them as he growled, "Brawling again, this pathetic display shames the Chapter."

Thyim dared to say, "Tenth-Captain we…"

"Silence!" Judio snapped, "You speak only when I give you permission to speak."

Bylan stood straight as Judio loomed over him and growled, "Day after day I watch your beatings, watch you fall on your face. Yet you have the gall to not die, when far more worthy Neophytes expire. Explain to me why you won't die."

Bylan refused to be browbeaten and replied, "+I did not come back from nothing only to fail+"

"Humph," Judio snorted, "I thought it was a mistake to readmit you. Nobody gets a second chance. Only a Sergeant's seal on the request swayed my mind. I humoured the petition, expecting you would die swiftly and be forgotten, but you stubbornly refuse to comply."

Thyim grinned ear to ear but Judio turned on him and barked, "You have nothing to laugh about! I have been watching you too, watching you bully and harass the other Scout-Novices. You have strength and ferocity but you have learned nothing of Brotherhood. You fight for nothing save your own wanton appetites, scorning the comradeship of the Chapter. You had promise but you wasted it in petty displays. Your mettle is soft and pliable. And your friends, sycophants and hangers-on, pathetic weasels flinching scraps. Not one of you is worthy of joining the Adeptus Astartes: you are all weak!"

Horrified silence reigned as Judio snarled, "It is my duty to forge Astartes, a grim duty I take most seriously. I must winnow the grain from the chaff, weed out the unworthy and the weak without hesitation or mercy. I accept this duty, knowing ninety-nine out of a hundred of my charges will die and when they don't, I find I must take matters into my own hands. I have been waiting for the four of you to die with dignity, but since you won't we will have to sort this out ourselves."

"But…" Thyim protested.

Yet Judio merely drew a combat knife with his left hand and threw it at the floor barking, "One of you shall continue your training, the other three shall die. BEGIN!"

There was a moment of silence then suddenly all four of them dove for the knife. Bylan found himself smothered in heaving muscles and hardened bones. Elbows hit ribs, knees slammed into groins and fingernails tore at skin as the four fought to grab the knife. All thoughts of Brotherhood and mercy were left behind, each of them knowing that the others would kill them without hesitation. Bylan wrestled for space, trying to get his hands on the knife and his fingers brushed the hilt, but then a hefty hand snatched it away. There was a thunk and a brief scream, then a spray of rich blood burst into the melee, painting the neophytes red.

Bylan instantly rolled away, getting clear and rose to his feet. Before him Thyim and Jedda rose, the bully holding a red knife in his right hand. On the floor Tregha lay dying, blood fountaining from the jagged gash in this throat. Rich arterial blood gushed forth as the Neophyte stared at the ceiling, eyes glazing as death took him. Bylan braced for the pair to rush him and Jedda snapped, "That's it, kill him!"

Yet to Bylan's shock Thyim swiftly spun and drove the point of the knife into Jedda's head, ramming it behind his ear up to the hilt. Bone shattered under the strength of Transhuman muscles and Jedda jerked as metal penetrated his brain. Then Thyim withdrew the knife and let the corpse drop. He lifted the blade before him then glanced at Bylan and hissed, "Only one survives."

"+Ragh!+" Bylan screamed as he threw himself at Thyim, knowing his only chance was to hit first.

Thyim roared as he stabbed forward but he only scored over Bylan's shoulder, leaving a bloody furrow. Bylan slammed into Thyim and the pair went over, thrashing and hitting for all they were worth. Thyim tried to stab him in the back but Bylan's elbow flashed out, knocking the knife from his hand. In return Thyim's hands closed around Bylan's throat, trying to strangle him.

Bylan grinned at the futile attempt, his Augmetics rendering him immune to choking. Yet Thyim's fist drew back and punched him in the face, making him see stars. The blow angered Bylan and something in his soul snapped. A torrent of anger flowed forth and made him jerk forward, sinking his teeth into Thyim's wrist. The Neophyte yelled in pain and his grip slackened for a moment. Instantly Bylan was on top, fists battering at the bleeding form below him. He struck for all the indignities he had suffered, he struck for the scorn he lived under and he struck out of the desperate need to survive. Then his eye caught the knife.

Bylan snatched up the knife and instantly his arm slammed down. Driven by his wrath, his hatred and his instinctive drive to survive it punched through Thyim's ribcage and drove into his primary heart. Time froze as Bylan's eyes widened and the veil fell from his eyes. His hands were slick on the knife, from the rich blood bubbling up around the blade and his hearts thundered in his ears at the enormity of what he had done. Thyim's jaw hung slack and his arms feebly waved in the air. His secondary heart was trying to take over the burden of keeping him alive but he was only partly Transhuman and it was faltering.

Bylan felt utterly detached and cold, barely able to comprehend what had happened and his eyes lifted to stare at Tenth Captain Judio, seeking guidance. The Master of Recruits however did not seem moved. He looked on with cold disdain as he uttered, "Finish him."

Bylan guts clenched in denial but his arm obeyed, jerking to carve across the chest. The knife found the secondary heart and penetrated it, ending its feeble attempts to keep Thyim alive. The Neophyte's eyes widened, then went cold and distant as death took him and his limbs fell to the padded floor.

Bylan reared back gasping for air and gasped, "+I killed him+"

Judio strode forward proclaiming, "Good, a worthy kill."

"+He was a Storm Herald+" Bylan breathed.

"Him?" Judio scoffed, "He was no Brother, he was weak and pathetic. A bully by nature and at heart all bullies are cowards. He would never have reached ascension. But you saved me the trouble of rejecting him. Now, explain why you killed him."

"+Because you ordered it+" Bylan replied blankly.

"Excellent," Judio crowed, "You do understand. Remember this lesson: fealty and obedience. Obedience above all. You must obey any order given to you by your superiors, no matter how vile and dishonourable."

"+Yes, Tenth-Captain+" Bylan replied numbly.

"Good," Judio stated, "Go wash the blood off and I will have some servitors take these failures away."

Bylan stood and marched away, unable to think past the next minute. Yet at the door he paused and asked, "+What do I tell the other Neophytes?+"

Judio's reply was cold and merciless, "Tell them weakness will not be tolerated."