Master Gladius sat down at his desk in his cell. He was naked except for his robe- his cell was too small for him to maneuver effectively in his armor. That was hung up on a rack which stood against one wall. Although he had a minimal need for sleep due to the catalepsian node implanted in his brain, he had a bedroll because a dedicated place for quiet meditation and prayer was both useful and spiritually pleasing. The rest of the accommodations were spartan, as befitting a monastic super soldier. Aside from the marine-sized desk and chair, all that remained was a half-filled weapons rack and a few furled banners leaning against one wall.

He picked up a dataslate and began to search through the chapter roster. He had been given permission to assemble a small team to go recruiting with, of no more than 10 marines in total. His guidelines were simple: He must include one chaplain, and no more than two members of the Deathwing. Although he disliked the restriction on members of the Deathwing, he accepted them, for he knew that experienced members of the first company were valuable and their skills were needed elsewhere. ++Let's see++, he though to himself++what the Emperor has in store for us today.++

Brother-Chaplain Akatriel held out his plasma pistol, crouched low, took aim, and fired. A target at the other end of the range exploded in a white ball of energy. The bright light the flames created flared momentarily in his eyes, until the lenses in his helmet adjusted. He spotted the next target, partially concealed behind a stone wall to his left. He sprung into the air, ignited the burners on his jump pack, flew to his left, landed, and fired again. He stood up straight. The light from the flames reflected off his black armor and white robes as he scanned left and right for more targets. He spotted a group in front of him, about 50 yards ahead and closing fast. They were combat drones, and they were carrying various blunt and sharp implements. Smiling beneath his armor, he put the safety on the plasma pistol and put it in his holster. He muttered a litany under his breath, out of habit, and because it never hurt to give the Emperor his due. ++The unholy surround, you, but you shall not fear them.++

In his left hand, he gripped his gilded Crozius Arcanum, his badge of office and favored weapon. His thumb flicked the activation rune and the mace, which ended in a sculpted metal angel, started glowing blue. With his right hand, he unsheathed his Deathwing honor knife from leg sheath he kept it in. The Lion had believed that honor came from service, and so the blade was no mere showpiece- it had a monomolecular edge that would rend metal as easily as flesh. ++Show no mercy to the heretic, for he has betrayed you.++

Akatriel ignited his jump pack again. At the apogee of his flight path he swung his legs forward, cut the engines, and activated the airbrake. He positioned himself, took careful aim...and landed a kick squarely in the chest of the lead drone. It was crushed beneath more than half a ton of armor, weapons, ammo, fuel and marine. The servomotors in his armor took most of the shock and whined with the exertion as the Chaplain and drone crashed to the ground. He spun around to find the other drones had reacted and gathered around him. One charged at him. He stepped forward and swung his crozius into the machine, which was ripped in two. His armor's sensors told him another was approaching from behind, so he swung around and jammed his knife deep into its chest. There were now three drones left. ++The evil shall fall before the glory of the Emperor, for he is most great.++

He was mentally planning his next move when a notice came on in the display in his helmet, indicating that he should report to hangar 7 as soon as possible. ++Time to speed this up.++ He sheathed his honor knife, snatched a grenade from his belt, turned off his Crozius, let it hang by it's chain, and pulled out his plasma pistol. Akatriel turned to face his opponents. In one fluid movement, he pulled the pin on the grenade, threw it a few yards in front of the drones, and then fired two plasma shots, one to either side of the group of drones. The drones' primitive machine spirit reacted, and the converged in a tight group... right on top of the grenade. There was an explosion, and the drones were reduced to a cloud of smoke and debris. The chaplain put his weapons away once more and walked out the door, heading for hangar 7.++ You shall be victorious; the glory of Him on Terra will preserve you and lend you strength.++

Brother Terrenas looked up from his bike to find a techmarine hovering over him.

"More unauthorized modifications to your bike, brother? I'm surprised you haven't totally offended the machine's spirit yet. What is it this time?"

As a member of the Ravenwing, Brother Terrenas was completely past being self-conscious about what he did with his bike. Standing 2nd company orders were that if it worked, it was allowed, whether the disciples of the machine god liked it or not. Currently the bike had a number of non-issue pieces of machinery attached to it- a turbocharger, extra lights, a laser rangefinder, oversize magazines for the fork-mounted bolters, along with a number of devotional slogans, seals, and carvings. The Ravenwing was an elite force, and like any other, no two soldiers' equipment was the same.

"A portable music playing device. Found it on that last hiveworld we scouted out. I have discerned a way it might be attached so that I can listen to it in my helmet during combat. I think you'll find the music quite appropriate and motivational."

He held up one of the shining discs that he had found with the archaic device. It was labeled, in an ancient form of gothic, "Metallica."

"Well, you know that as much as I want to, I cannot stop you." Said the techmarine, with no small amount of disdain in his voice. "But I must warn you, Brother. Such meddling could anger the machine god at just the wrong moment."

"I will remember that."

"Oh, and by the way. I just spoke to the Grand Master- you've been assigned to a detachment. A Master by the name of Gladius. Looks like you're going recruiting. You're to report to hangar 7. Immediately."

"Immediately?" The biker was initially surprised, but he recovered quickly. Taking it in stride, he smirked. ++Then I'll finally be rid of you++, he thought, but said "Very well then. Farewell."

He turned from his work, put the device in his saddlebag, and stepped onto the bike. Terrenas put his helmet back on with a loud ++click-hiss,++ gunned the engine, and shouted the customary parting phrase back at the techmarine as he sped down the hallway.

A few hours after his solitary meditation, Master Gladius stepped out of the lift onto the training level and looked around. There were several obstacle courses, an armory, tracks for vehicle practice, and a very large firing range. Scouts, who were initiates in combat training, were gathered in small clumps all through the room. Their sergeants could somehow be heard yelling commands, taunts, and insults at the initiates over the sound of hundreds of guns, engines, and footsteps. There were also a number of line marines here, killing time in between deployments and prayers while there wasn't anything else to kill.

Gladius approached the range, towering over them in his personalized terminator armor. He needed a stealthy forward element for his recruiting force, and a sniper would do perfectly. He stood back from the firing line. At one end, a 10th Company Sergeant was lecturing his charges on the use of the various weapons. There were some devastator marines in the middle, who were discussing the merits of different styles of missile launcher, and who would occasionally send a round or two downrange to prove a point. Finally, at the other end of the range, where the distance to the targets could be a mile or more, were the snipers.

Gladius watched as two snipers lay on the floor. One chambered a round, while the other looked down at the targets with a pair of binoculars. They held still for a moment, and then the marine with the binoculars called out a series of targets. The scout with the rifle proceeded to fire a shot every second, one at each target.

The master, watching from behind, held up his own weapon and pointed it at the targets. Using a mental command, he zoomed in on them and had the image projected into his left eye. There was a neat hole in the center of each target.

"Very nice shots, Brother. What is your name?"

The marine, who, until this moment, had been totally focused on his weapon, sprung up from the prone position and saluted the terminator.

"Master! I am Brother Cyril, in your service and the Emperor's, sir!"

"Calm yourself, brother. I am putting together a small detachment for a mission, and I require a man of your skill. Gather your equipment and report to hangar 7- there is already part of my small team there and you will be briefed by them. Go now, for the Lion."

"For the Lion and the Emperor!"

The scout looked unsure for a second, and then ran off to gather his things. Gladius walked nonchalantly over to a different part of the range and armed his storm bolter, instinctively muttering litanies of accuracy and efficiency. He touched a button on a console on the range and six man- shaped targets appeared. The light on the console blinked red a few times, and then turned green. He snapped his weapon into position and pulled the trigger six times. The double-barreled weapon roared as rocket-assisted rounds screamed downrange. Gladius saw six successive explosions and each target was ripped to pieces by shrapnel. He smiled and walked back to the lift.

A strange assortment of noises could be heard emanating from the depths of a compartment on the ++Lion's Honor++ labeled APOTHECARIUM TECNOLOGICA, CELLA IX. There was a constant bubbling noise, a grinding noise, and every so often a loud squeak or bang was heard. Occasionally there would be muttered conversation in high gothic, and more colorful language in other tongues.

"Mierda," said a deep, smooth voice, with a hint of disgust in it.

"What now, brother?" said another voice. It sounded eerily similar to the first, but bore a more exasperated tone.

"Nothing, brother. My digitus luceo has ceased to function again. I must have somehow angered its spirit. Never mind- I will measure it manually."

"Be sure your measurements are accurate, brother. I cannot have new battle brothers injuring themselves for such a petty reason as ill-fitting armor."

"Please. Have I ever failed in this respect in the past?'

"Well, I can recall one instance, during a training exercise-" The other voice cut him off.

"You know very well that was intentional. Not that anyone could ever prove it. Still, do not talk of that frivolously, Remus. Nor you, brother scout."

This last was directed at a third person, who forcefully replied "Yes sir!"

"My dear brother Romulus, worry not. I enjoyed that little incident as much as you did. Though it was somewhat irritating attempting to extricate our dear friend from his codpiece while he was thrashing about so."

"Bah. He deserved that." Changing the subject, he addressed the scout again. "Here, brother, take these measurements to the manufactorium so they may begin crafting your armor. Make sure they take account of the strength and bio readings Brother Remus took- there is no quicker way to end up right back in the apothecarium than to overpower the servomotors. Dismissed."

The compartment door opened and an excited looking scout saluted, and jogged off, carrying a dataslate. Inside, a man armored in white and red stood leaning against a bulkhead. Various needles, saws, scissors, displays, tubes and containers of liquid hung from various parts of his armor. Next to him, on an oversized work stool, sat another marine, clad in red and blue. Tools of all sorts hung from his belt, and a large mechanical arm extended from his back over his head. He was fiddling with a small electronic device on his desk and muttering a prayer to the machine god. Both were bareheaded, their helmets placed on the desk. Their faces, like their voices, were identical. Had they been unarmored, it would have been impossible to tell them apart.

"Machina sanctus, deus armorum... aha. Got it." He snapped the device's cover closed, and pointed it at his brother, and looked at the readout. It was in satisfactory order, so he switched it off and clipped it to his belt. He looked at his brother's face, and could tell, from 150 years experience, that his brother had something to tell him.

"Well?" he asked.

"Summoned. Gladius." ++We've been summoned by Master Gladius++

"Celebrities." ++Well. Look what celebrities we've become.++ An outside observer would have had difficulty deciphering this conversation, but each knew the other in the way that only twins can. Though no librarian had ever detected any connection, there were those that swore they could communicate telepathically. Brother Romulus stood up from his workbench and both marines took their helmets. They walked out the door.

"No. Honored." ++ I don't know about you, but I'm honored to be called by such a man as he.++

"Bah. Anonymity." ++Bah. I believe the true path to honor lies in service without regard for reputation.++

"As you will."

"Where?"

"Hangar 7."

"When?

"Now."

"Armorium?"

"Later."

"As the Emperor wills."

"Indeed."

The marines stopped partway down the hallway. In silence, they boarded a lift. Romulus pushed a button with his servo-arm, and the door slid shut.