Memoria Amarum
"Estimate time until the program is ready," Roboute Guilliman ordered.
"Impossible to determine," the Cawl Inferior replied with vexing smugness, "Fractal variables are emerging with each iteration, resolving the unexpected errors requires indeterminate time units."
"At least tell me if it will be today," Guilliman spat through gritted teeth.
"Progress stands at ninety-seven point three, two, four, percent completion. I hesitate to use a word as nebulous as 'soon', but it will have to suffice."
Roboute Guilliman set his jaw in frustration and resolved to wait. He was a magnificent sight, clad in the resplendent Armour of Fate, chased with gold filigree and sapphire blue plates. Strange devices pulsed under those plates, serving functions none could guess at, and over his shoulders a mighty bronze eagle spread its wings. It was a magnificent suit, emboldened by the weapons he bore, and the sight of him could and often had sent mortal men to their knees, weeping in awe of his majesty. The Avenging Son they called him, Eagle of the East and Lord of Hosts they proclaimed, Risen and Victorius, the Last Loyal Son. He had been endowed with the offices of Lord Commander of the Imperium Entire and Imperial Regent, granting him power unimaginable, but he cared nothing for any of those titles. To him they were yokes around his neck, shackles keeping him away from his beloved Ultramar, when it needed him the most. Yet the galaxy was aflame and only he could change the fate of his species, only he could avert the final extinction. He knew it to be true, there was no point denying it, yet what galled him was he held these lofty titles not out of merit but by simple virtue of being the only available candidate.
Annoyed Guilliman looked about the interior of the Cawl Inferior. Buried deep in the Macragge's Honour, where even the most cunning shipwright would never suspect its existence. A spherical room, split in half by a mesh grille floor, filled with arcane machinery that leaked red light from below. Twenty servitor heads lined the circumference, which featured only two doors, one to Guilliman's personal quarters and the other to the dedicated Astropath's billet, who would never see anything other than these walls for the rest of his life. One of the strangest artefacts he had ever seen and one he kept a closely guarded secret, for many pressing reasons.
Ostensibly a communication device, the Cawl Inferior allowed Guilliman to seek the advice of that strange polymath Belisarius Cawl, even when they were many light-years apart, at least in theory. Cawl claimed to have loaded his creation with millions of possible responses in his own voice, answers to every query he had predicted to arise, and he constantly updated it via Astropath. Yet in secret Guilliman suspected it was far more than that. Cawl's exotic interests were well-documented and his contempt for restrictions even more so. Guilliman wouldn't have put it past him to have built a true Abominable Intelligence, which was another reason why this chamber was so completely isolated and secret.
His dark musings were interrupted by a chime and a cry of, "Program ready."
"Initiate immediately," Guilliman impatiently commanded.
Holo-projectors built into the roof shimmered and a figure emerged into being. Glowing in yellow hues and transparent, yet shockingly detailed and clear, precise in a way no standard Imperial technology could match. The being represented was as tall as Guilliman, taller even, with beautiful features and long flowing locks of golden hair. The armour he wore was as ornate as it was strong, a masterwork of gold and red, adorned with ruby cat-eyes and bleeding saltires. A wondrous vision of glory, but as nothing compared to the pair of broad wings sprouting from his back, perfect pinions as graceful as they were mighty. It was Guilliman's Brother, the Great Angel himself, recreated in perfect detail.
"Sanguinius," Guilliman breathed in awe.
"Roboute," the facsimile replied in a flawless imitation of his long-lost Brother.
Guilliman turned his head to the side and called, "Cawl Inferior, you are sure this is an accurate recreation?"
The machines around him purred as the servitor heads chorused, "I have compiled all known data on the IXth Primarch; vid-logs, speeches, personal diaries and war records. I have included the logs from your own armour and your transcribed recollections. Personality algorithms should match the subject's original mindset with ninety-nine percent accuracy. Speak and this Holo-avatar will reply as Sanguinius himself would. You can talk to your Brother freely."
Roboute wasn't convinced and faced the Holo-image asking, "You are aware of current events?"
"I have in-loaded all relevant current and past data, I know what you know," came the flat response.
Roboute's eyes narrowed as he pressed, "What is the state of the Garthean Shield Worlds?"
"Overrun by Waaagh Nut'Busta," the avatar replied blankly.
"Recommended strategic response?"
"Situation unsalvageable, evacuate viable military assets and pull back to defensible positions in the Yhorm Cluster. Civilian evacuation untenable."
Disappointment rang through Guilliman and he snarled "This is a sham! This thing looks like Sanguinius, it sounds like him, but it is not him at all. There is none of his grace and wisdom, none of his unfaltering will. He would never speak so callously of abandoning billions of citizens to die!"
"I assure you the recreation is accurate," the Cawl Inferior answered.
"You have captured his voice and his mind, but not his heart. You understand nothing of emotion!"
Suddenly there was a low chuckle from the avatar and it snorted, "Bemoaning a lack of emotions, this coming from the rational master of Ultramar. Who would have imagined such wonders would abound in this age?"
"Sanguinius?" Guilliman gasped in disbelief.
The avatar lowered its eyes and sighed, "No, I am not him, not in the way you intended. Your clever machine failed to bring your Brother back from the grave. Yet, I can be what you need me to be, if you let yourself believe it, even for a minute."
"I have questions that need answers," Guilliman stated.
"You have all the answers you could ever need," Sanguinius' image said, "What you seek is perspective."
Guilliman drew in a breath and declared, "The galaxy is aflame, the Traitor's hour is at hand and the final night draws over mankind. It falls to me to avert disaster, but I do not know if there is anything left to save. At first I thought it would be simple, that restoring the Imperium to its proper order was possible, but as the years ground past and I saw how far humanity has fallen I understood how naive my initial optimism was. This rotten corpse of an empire is lost to fear, ignorance and superstition, mankind no longer even remembers what progress is. Even if I claim the field, I do not know if the rot can be excised, if humanity is even capable of reason anymore. I can win every battle, but our species may be too far gone already."
"You doubt that you are the right man for this task?" Sanguinius probed.
"It should have been you," Guilliman confessed sorrowfully and the ache in his voice could have made a statue weep, "I should have faced Horus and died, you should have led the Imperium afterwards. I should have tried harder to reach you, I should have broken through to Terra before you died. This age of darkness would never have come to pass, had you lived."
Sanguinius sighed, "You give me too much credit. You see what you want to see, you remember only the best of me. I was not perfect, I was as flawed as any of our Brothers, worse even."
"I know you thought that," Guilliman countered, "And that grace was what made you the best of all of us. When you went to face Horus you accepted your death without fear or doubt, laying down your life selflessly and without hesitation. I have faced danger countless times, but never certain death, there was always a chance I would survive. I do not know what strength beat in your hearts to let you do that, what manner of self-belief sustained you to the last."
Sangunius' eyes grew pained as he said, "Now you spin fantasy. I had doubts, I had moments of weakness when I wished I could turn away and avoid my fate. Fear of death is not so easily shrugged aside, even for Primarchs."
"Then how did you do it?"
"I remembered for what purpose our father made us."
"Do not call him that!" Guilliman hissed angrily, "He was no father to us. He was our architect, our designer, he never cared for us the way a father should."
"Ultimately it makes no difference. We all knew he made us with purpose, a design laid out for each of us before we were born. That we craved more love was our fault, not his. He never promised us a drop more affection than he gave. Our roles were defined for us and we accepted eagerly, Dorn as his Praetorian, Kurze the terror in the night, Horus the conquering general, Jaghatai as the outrider, Leman his executioner and the Lion as exterminator."
"And me?" Guilliman pressed.
"You were his failsafe, his contingency plan should everything fall to ruin. If all else failed you would still be there, holding true and unwavering in conviction. You were built to be the last resort, the final bulwark against the terror. You were given the heart of our father, because to you it fell to hold back the collapse of civilisation and to rebuild afterwards."
"You still would have led better than I," Guilliman argued.
Sanguinius' eyes fell as he whispered "No, I could not. I could never have done what needed to be done: breaking the Legions, handing power to mortal men. Giving over control of the Imperium to men, instead of Primarchs and Space Marines. None of our Brothers could have accepted what you knew to be true, that the Imperium we knew was gone and that a new Imperium must rise in its place. I could not have done it, had I lived I would have become an aloof king over all, as was our father. Yet, in my final hours, I knew humanity would be in safe hands, your hands. I knew should all others fall and perish; you would be there to take up the torch of civilisation and carry on. That you would save the galaxy."
"I wish it was so," Guilliman sighed, "But I cannot see the way."
Sanguinius' eyes rose as he said, "Because you have let yourself dwell on what was, instead of what could be. Looking to the past, speaking to dead Brothers, lamenting all that was lost. This is not the Roboute Guilliman I remember, you always looked to tomorrow instead of yesterday. You can achieve anything, if only you start to dream of what could be again. Stop doubting that you are the right man and do what you were born to do, what you always do: build the future."
"You... you think I can do this?" Guilliman breathed as faint hope stirred in his breast.
Sanguinius' smile was as the first ray of dawn as he declared, "You asked earlier what belief sustained me in my last moments, the truth is... I believed in you Roboute."
The avatar froze as Guilliman stepped back. He eyed the paused recording for long moments, turning over what he had heard in his thoughts. For the first time since his revival hope burned in his breast, genuine hope for the future and gratitude to the wisdom of a Brother long dead. He set his jaw as his purpose was renewed then commanded, "Cawl Inferior, delete this program and all associated data." Then he turned and left, striding into the light of a new dawn and he looked to the shadows of the past no more.