Unwanted Promotion: A Warhammer 40,000 Tale
Chapter 1:
"PROVIDE CREDENTIALS." The lock insisted for the third time.
"Staff Sergeant Matthias Galen of the 19th Palatial Medicae Regiment. Human/Transhuman Surgical Specialist Division, Identification number: 23084001919882," he repeated, fatigue and the pain in his hands only compounding his irritation with the damnable machine.
Whatever he had done differently than the first two times he attempted entry into his own apartment apparently sated his front door's appetite for precise credentials. He heard the lock click as it disengaged and the door slid open. Matthias trudged in, letting his coat and pack fall to the floor as his unmade bed beckoned to him sweetly. He barely had time to remember that he'd forgotten to remove his shoes before sleep took him.
His dreams were a repeat of the events of the last fifteen hours. A marathon surgery that had ended with the patient succumbing to his injuries. Standard protocol dictated that after five hours, he should have been relieved by another surgeon, but no relief ever came. Secondary protocol dictated that if the patient could not be stabilized after thirteen hours, he was to cease treatment and let the patient expire, but he couldn't have done that even if he had wanted to. His patient of the last fifteen hours had been one of the Emperor's own angels. A Space Marine.
Matthias had been introduced to his doomed patient when the doors of the operatorium had been flung open and two hulking figures entered, dragging in their wounded battle brother. One of the nursing staff had to be removed from the room and sedated when he started to scream uncontrollably at the sight of the massive warriors. Matthias didn't blame him in the slightest. An episode of transhuman dread could happen to anyone. Sometimes one or two people that suffered from it were able to hide it or keep it under control for a time, but none of them were ever able to keep it under wraps for long. Like stones beneath a hammer's blow, they all cracked eventually and then they were weeded out.
"Make sure that he's restrained before he wakes up," Matthias said angrily to the people carrying the sedated nurse out of the room "and make sure to keep him away from anything he could use to hurt himself until he gets a full psychiatric workup! Find out why he slipped through the cracks and was allowed in my operatorium for so long."
The two Astartes warriors hoisted their brother onto the operating table. Blood, presumably that of the wounded marine, interrupted the yellow paint scheme of their ceramite armor, running down the angles and curves of the warplate in angry red streaks. Something was wrong, something other than the hole in the wounded marine's breastplate.
"What happened here?" Matthias demanded.
"Bolt round to his chest." One marine, the taller of the two, began. "One of the cultists we were tasked with exterminating somehow got her filthy hands on the weapon and managed to get the shot off before we could kill her."
Matthias looked at the wound on the fallen marine. A bolter was certainly capable of punching through Astartes armor, but the rounds they were typically loaded with were designed to explode within the target, destroying it utterly. This marine's torso was still intact save the hole it bore.
"A dud round then," he mused "I understand that isn't supposed to happen."
"It matters not. Can you save him?" The shorter Astartes demanded, looking down on Matthias, casting a shadow over his face.
"I'll do everything in my power." Matthias affirmed, taking a small step back. "Help me get his armor off."
His dream quickened, reducing to flashes of scenes and words that had been spoken that had happened earlier. He saw the wounded Astartes' white shoulder pauldron that bore a red, denoting him as an apothecary. That explained why the marine had been taken to him instead of the Imperial Fists dealing with it internally.
"His pulses are out of sync and far too high." he heard himself say. "Push beta blockers, and hang another bag of Larraman's cells. Get this damn armor off NOW!"
Hours passed in seconds. The wounded Astartes Apothecary's own Larraman's organ had been destroyed by the defective bolt round, which was why his blood wasn't clotting like it was supposed to. As if to make the situation worse on purpose, the round had damaged one of the crucial valves that kept combat stimulants out of the marine's system until bidden by his mental command. He had so many stims in his system that it was a wonder he hadn't gone into cardiac arrest. Matthias couldn't risk pushing any more drugs into the warrior's already struggling body.
"Get him on dialysis!" he ordered. "We need to get these stimulants out of his blood before the rest of his organs start shutting down."
More time passed. He was near the end now. The dialysis had succeeded in cleansing the Astartes' blood of the stimulants that were kicking his system into overdrive. His pulses had returned to normal and Matthias had inserted a fresh Larraman's organ. He had just finished the last suture when the heart monitor beside him raised an alarm and bathed the operatorium in flashing yellow lights.
"What's happening to him?" The taller marine asked, ceasing to be the motionless statue he had been for the past hours.
"Cardiac arrest," Matthias said quickly, reading the heart and brainwave monitors. A new shadow, not cast by the Astartes came over his face "and complete cessation of brain activity. I'm sorry sir. Your brother is dead. The shock of the stims being introduced to his system all at once was likely what caused it. We'll know more from the autopsy."
"Dead?!" The shorter marine roared, his helmet's speaker amplifying his voice to a volume that made Matthias' teeth rattle. "He cannot have been brought low by such a wound!
Matthias turned the display he had been looking at toward the giant.
"As you can see here-"
He never completed his sentence. The Astartes' huge hand was already wrapped around his neck. Matthias felt his feet lose purchase on the floor as the warrior lifted him up with the same effort as a normal man would lift a dataslate.
"You will pay with your life for this failure, Sergeant." The Marine seethed.
Matthias barely heard the warrior. He had the fingers of both of his hands locked together to form a fist and was repeatedly striking downward as hard as he could on the joint of the Astartes' elbow. He felt the outer metacarpals in both of his hands begin to fracture against the impervious ceramite. He wondered if the marine felt anything at all. His vision began to darken as his injured hands came to rest on the Astartes' forearm, too weak to come apart.
Suddenly he was on the ground, coughing and gasping for air. The Imperial Fist that had been seconds from taking his life was striding out the door of the operatorium. What changed his mind was not immediately apparent to Matthias, but it didn't matter. He looked up from the floor to see that the other Space Marine was still there.
"Please accept my apologies for my brother's outburst, sergeant," he said, offering a hand to Matthias and helping him to his feet. Pain shot through the fractured hand, but indignation dulled it in an instant. "He doesn't see that you've done all you could. Please go to your quarters. I will arrange for my fallen brother's gene seed recovery, and explain the situation to your superior. Thank you for your splendid efforts."
Matthias shook his head. "A splendid effort would have seen him get off the slab. The autopsy will reveal if he died because of my efforts or in spite of them."
The following day had been a nightmare for the 19th Palatial Medicae. For the first time in recent memory, an Imperial Fist had been slain on Holy Terra. Rumors of an Inquisitorial investigation had made their way down to the rank and file and morale was suffering as a result. Colonel Abendigo Shaw, the commanding officer of the regiment, had personally come to inspect the body of the fallen Astartes and to speak with Matthias on the procedure. The Imperial Fists had also sent the 3rd Company's Captain Tor Garadon himself, presumably to also inspect and recover the body of the fallen apothecary. Matthias stood and saluted his colonel as the man and marine entered the operatorium.
"At ease, sergeant." Colonel Shaw said without looking at him.
Matthias put his bandaged hands behind his back and picked a cabinet on the wall to stare at. It was infinitely better than looking at the huge Space Marine whose armor bore such a similar look to the set belonging to his would-be killer. He said nothing.
"I understand that you and your team were responsible for the treatment of one Apothecary Nahum Tarsius," The colonel continued. "Is that correct?"
"Yes sir." Matthias said flatly.
Colonel Shaw turned to the Astartes Captain. "Is this him?" He asked
The marine nodded once without saying a word. This marine, Mathias decided, was cut from a different cloth than the two that had barged into his operatorium the night before. He felt older, wiser, but somehow more powerful than the others. The Astartes of the previous night needed only one hand to nearly kill Matthias, but he had no doubt that this captain could probably end him with a glare.
"What did the autopsy reveal, sergeant?" The voice of the Astartes Captain sounded through his helmet's speaker. It was phrased as a question, but Matthias' brain registered it as an imperative.
"Sir," he began immediately. "Apothecary Tarsius' death was brought on by a ruptured aneurysm leading to a hemorrhagic stroke. We believe that the aneurysm formed when his system was subjected to an overdose of combat stimulants triggered by a damaged valve in his power armor. The aneurysm most likely burst sometime during the dialysis treatment when we were giving him fresh blood transfusions along with cleaning the stims out of his bloodstream. After transplanting a fresh Larraman's Organ, it probably sealed off the rupture in his brain, cutting it off from oxygen and killing the cells, resulting in brain death. We drained the fluid but the damage to the brain was too severe to work with."
Matthias stopped himself from offering condolences to the Astartes Captain. The Marine had only asked for what the autopsy revealed, and nothing more.
"Thank you, sergeant." The Captain said. "Colonel, I am satisfied with this report. If it is agreeable with you, I would move on to the next matter."
The colonel nodded his agreement.
"Sergeant Galen," Colonel Shaw began. "The death of Apothecary Tarsius was unfortunate, and it was through no fault of your own. You did everything that you could do under the circumstances and went above and beyond what could have been expected of you. I am proud to have you under my command."
In spite of the Colonel's praise, Matthias felt the other shoe above his head, waiting to drop.
"However," The Colonel continued. There it was. The bad news. "A warrior of the Imperial Fists died on your watch and someone must be held responsible. I hereby sentence you to death."
Death? For doing nothing wrong? Matthias didn't understand. Was his life spared last night only to be snuffed out today? Where was the sense in that? There was a blur of movement and suddenly the massive Astartes Captain had his bolt pistol aimed in his direction. He didn't even have time to gasp.
The bolt pistol roared, its muzzle flash washing the room in bright yellow-white light. His ears were ringing and Matthias felt something wet splatter across his back and begin to flow downward, dripping to the floor. He slowly brought a bandaged hand around to his face. It was red with fresh blood. He knew the pain would come later once his ears stopped ringing, if he lived that long.
The pain never came, and neither did death. Matthias turned around to see a hole in the wall of the operatorium just above a counter where several ruined blood packs lay.
"I hereby confirm the death of Staff Sergeant Matthias Galen of the 19th Palacial Medicae Regiment, Human/Transhuman Surgical Specialist Division, Identification number: 23084001919882, and relinquish his body to the custody of Captain Tor Garadon of the 3rd Company of The Imperial Fists to dispose of in whatever manner he sees fit." Colonel Shaw announced.
Matthias turned back around just in time to see the grip of the bolt pistol slamming into the side of his head, and the world went black.