Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 361
It had been many times the life of a mortal since fresh air had been smelt within Lamentantor. Held in her drydock cradle the Chapter-barque was worked over by thousands of Artisans and Tech-priests, all schooled in the deepest mysteries of the Cult Technis. Worn components were restored, broken devices repaired till they were as new and twisted passages made smooth. Lifeless segments of the vessel were cut open, and smashed spars torn free. Armour was fitted over gaping wounds in the flanks and the main drives received their first plasma-scrubbing and consecration in many centuries.
Lamentantor bristled with fresh pride and those within breathed clean air, some for the first time. It did not take long before for questions to arise. Those dragged on board, believing they had found salvation, began to wonder why they were not permitted to leave. Those who had been born into this life sneered at the very thought, convinced service to the Blood Talons was the highest of honours. Fights broke out between filthy beggars, swiftly escalating into riots, forcing the Host to intervene. With shotgun and mace they broke heads, crushing rioters with brutal disdain. Leal servants or troubled newcomers, they cared not, only that order be imposed. Broken bones and crushed heads became commonplace and more than a few saw a chance to flee.
Dozens of newcomers sneaked out during the riots, heading for the exterior. With so many strangers wandering the ship it was easy to reach the airlocks and cycle through. Many of these people had served in spaceports or other functional activities and knew how to beguile a Machine Spirit. Once outside they threw themselves from the hull, trusting the zero-g environment to carry them to the dock's walls. The foolish hurled themselves with great bounds, only to find it impossible to brake their fall once committed. These dolts dashed their skulls open on unforgiving drydock walls, dying unremarked and unmissed. A wiser few gently pushed away and drifted through the air like leaves, they touched down without incident and then stole into the Serpens Rex's bowels. Their subsequent lives were a mixed tale of criminality and charity, either falling prey or joining brutal work-gangs, or being taken into service with an artisan of some description or another. Lives of no consequence to the outside galaxy, but still better than remaining inside Lamentantor's grip.
Aronyx remained blissfully unaware of this, trusting O'leia to manage the mortals in his stead. The Regnator had more pressing business. Deep within the bowels of the vessel lay the Partureintis Domus, a sacred vault forbidden to all outsiders. Here Aronyx lingered, awaiting a most holy rite.
"Have you attended an awakening before?" Aronyx asked.
"Not since my first day as a Brother," Rovenator admitted, "I have been busy."
"You should always make time to attend, my Centurio," Aronyx sighed, "It is important."
"Why?"
Aronyx looked at his subordinate, searching for disdain, but found only innocent questions. He replied, "Such moments are the heart of the Blood, the wellspring of our strength and vigour. We must be present, so our names and faces are known to all. It impresses our authority from the start, but it is not for them alone. Such sights renew our covenant with the Primarch, reminding us of the purpose for which we were gene-forged. Look up and see his teachings writ large."
Aronyx and Rovenantor looked up. The vault was formed into a nave, longer than a Sororitas Chantry, with a high vaulted roof rendered in lavish murals of the life of Sanguinius. By the flickering light of electro-scones could be seen painted frescos of the Primarch's awakening in Angel's Fall. His life among the lowly primitives of Baal Secundus, the coming of his creator and the glory years of the Great Crusade. The Horus Heresy was not omitted, the dark years of betrayal and horror rendered in exacting detail. Brother fought brother and friends fought friend, as mankind's golden age was dashed to pieces. Throughout it all Sanguinius stood firm, unwavering in righteous conviction. Signus Prime, Beta Garmon, the Eternity Gate, and finally the Vengeful Spirit. The Primarch never wavered in any scene.
"Truly, he lived the perfect life," Rovenator commented in awe.
Aronyx however mused, "Some say our gene-father owned the gift of foresight, that he knew his death was fated at the hands of his Traitorous Brother. A good death, facing impossible odds with a sword in hand."
"Would that we all could die so well."
Aronyx sighed, "But to know your death was set before the fact, would that be a blessing or a curse? Did it edify Sanguinius to know he could not die until he reached Horus' side, or was it a millstone about his neck? To know death is inevitable is one thing, but to wake every morning knowing the moment and the way… I would not wish such a burden upon anyone."
"Forgive me, my Regnator, but today is about life, not death," Rovenator uttered. Aronyx took the hint and lowered his eyes. Placed along the length of the nave stood twin rows of upright biers. Black metal, each nine-foot tall and ringed by arcane runes. Thick cables were buried into the side of each, tagged by purity seals of yellowing parchment and cracking wax. A special order of mortals tended the caskets, every man ritually blinded so not to gaze upon the mysteries of the gene-craft. They felt analogue dials with wizened hands and listened to the clicking of readouts, judging the perfect moment to begin.
In the middle of the nave Korinthus waited. The Sacredos would begin when the moment was ripe, not before. His creamy armour stood out among the black caskets, rod of office held tight as his chin lifted high. His role was to know the sacred mysteries, and he was the author of what would occur this day.
"How much longer?" Roventor whispered.
"Hush," Aronyx chided, "Show respect."
"I shall, but how long for?"
"The answer seems to be now."
A blind cleric hobbled to the ritual spot where Korinthus waited and held up a yellowing scrip. The Sacredos took it and read the printout, then lifted his rod high and slammed the butt into the floor. The dull clang rang loud in the echoing space and signalled wizened hands to begin turning dials. Again the Sacredos rang aloud, signalling the disengagement of fluid pumps and the opening of sluice gates. Again he rang, and the latches on the caskets were undone, spilling the contents out.
Aronyx watched with keen interest as the caskets spilt open, gushing cold amniotic fluids into grates set about the biers, along with Transhuman bodies. Life support cables ripped free as they toppled, naked and shivering. They hit the cold floor and lay in a stupor, unable to stand, unable to see. This was not weakness, this was birth. A year and a day had the novitiates dwelt in the dark, being subjected to gene-forging and Hypno-indoctrination. They had entered as starving boys and emerged as Transhuman giants, each a vision of power and beauty set in the mould of Sanguinius.
"Twenty-five," Aronyx counted, "A good crop."
"We lost a dozen more," Rovenator nodded towards a few that did not breathe.
"Such things are common in ascension, the secrets of our Primarch's genes are not for us to know. Give thanks to his strength and vitality that so many survived. They will find a place among our squads and begin their new lives among the Blood."
A few were starting to stir, shivering muscles twitching as eyes strained to adapt to light. The pain had not yet ended, many more implantation surgeries awaited, to add the remaining gene-crafted organs, but from today they were counted among the Blood. They would be issued power armour and begin their training immediately. Aronyx remembered what it was like, to be naked and unsure, eyes filled with stabbing pain as the heart took on a rhythm of its own. For a year and a day they had been kept alive by machines, pumped with the vitae of a Primarch and heads filled with implanted visions of his life. To think thoughts of his own was harrowing.
"I wonder how long they've got?" Rovenator mused.
"Until the curse takes them?" Aronyx muttered.
"Until the visions begin," Rovenator corrected, "I remember my first years, free of rage and thirst, alone in my own head. Three decades I served, till I first saw the Primarch's doom."
Aronyx nodded, "I was in my fourth decade, but the visions increase with age. Some days I lose myself, for an instant, thinking I am him. I give thanks to past Regnators, for anchoring my spirit."
Rovenator shook his head, "I have yet to enjoy their boons, but they warn me even their wisdom cannot deny the Black Rage forever. The curse will take all of us."
"We have time," Aronyx cautioned, "We have time to fight and earn glory. To become Angels of Death and find beautiful deaths."
"What if you die first?" Rovenantor asked.
"What of it?"
"If you die, I must consume your brain and commune with Regnators past," Rovenator explained, "Who then will be Centurio? Whose wisdom will the next ingest?"
Aronyx pursed his lips, "A new Centurio will begin a new lineage, such is the way of things."
The newborn Astartes were starting to rise. Finding their feet as fowls fresh from the womb, wobbly and unsure but growing in confidence by the second. One stood upright before any other, swaying drunkenly but not falling. A strong spirit, Aronyx judged, a potential leader of the future. He made a mental note to keep an eye on that one, possibly a future Regulus in the making, such qualities were obvious from the start.
Korinthus lifted his voice to cry, "Welcome to the Blood, sons of Sanguinius!"
Implanted hypno-triggers made the newborn speak without conscious thought, "We give thanks and praise for his gifts."
"Swear fealty and obedience to the Chapter, swear to follow the example of Sanguinius in all things."
"We pledge our lives to his cause!"
Aronyx stepped forward and recited his lines, "The spirit of the Primarch is in our veins and our souls!"
The newborn cried, "By his blood we are made!"
"By his creed shall we die!"
All eyes turned to the last painting on the wall, set at the end of the nave, between the caskets. Rendered in exacting detail lay the Primarch Sanguinius, in a deathly pose. His spear and sword lay out of reach, his face deathly pale. Once magnificent wings were broken and frayed, he would fly no more. Over him the archtraitor Horus loomed, crimson light bathing his wicked face, and yet upon his breast a jagged gash in the armour glinted. Sanguinius had torn that rent, with his last breath, exposing the filth's hearts for the fatal blow that was to come.
Aronyx's hearts ached at the sight, knowing his gene-father's sacrifice had laid the foundations of Horus' defeat. Sanguinius' gave his life so Chaos could be cast down and mankind endure. That the Imperium still stood only added to the wonder and the scope of Sangunius' triumph. A beautiful death, the perfect death. Tears pricked Aronyx's eyes and he wished his own death could be half as noble. Blood willing, it would come soon.
