Sedreth sat quietly in the remembrance chapel, his thoughts whirling. Every so often he would raise his eyes to look along the long series of alcoves behind the gleaming altar-block. The block itself was simple, since there had been no God for it to be dedicated to; it was more an object of focus than of worship. On the altar was a deep amethyst cloth edged in gold, and on top of that a chalice in the form of the Legion's taloned wing and a pair of candlesticks formed like birds of fire, all three in solid gold and chased with precious metals and inlays. Beyond that were the alcoves, each side of a long long passage, each dedicated to the Fallen in some battle or other, each holding a marble column with the names of dead warriors and most also with a battle banner. The great majority of those banners were of the Legion, but some were from different units, reminder of astartes of other Legions who had fought and died beside the 79th Century.
And right in the centre of the long passageway was the most astounding thing of all. Facing each other, two great, life-size, portraits; remembrance of the fighting on Murder. He remembered now that Cadris had painted them, and that the Primarch himself had called them a good likeness. Both were action portraits, combat against the megarachnid. One showed the Phoenician, magnificent and ferocious in his Imperial battle armour, with golden flames licking along his broadsword Fireblade and his free hand crushing the thorax of a chitinous monstrosity. The other was the Blood Angel, jewel-roped wings outspread in the act of landing, a glowing silver blade in one hand and a massive pistol spitting fire in the other, the joy of battle in his eyes. Warriors of both Legions were depicted in the background of both portraits, ordinary astartes following their Lords into battle for the Emperor. Unlike the other alcoves which held only one remembrance column each, those with the portraits had three each, with long, long lists of Fallen astartes from the IX and XVI Legions as well as Children. Torn and stained banners of all three Legions hung between the paintings, the crimson of the Blood Angels 43rd Century and pearly white of the Luna Wolves Sixth Company flanking the blood-stained amethyst and gold battle banners of the 79th and 78th Centuries of the Emperor's Children.
He had traced the names of the dead with his fingertips, remembering faces and mannerisms, and strangely grateful that they had not lived to see what had become of their brothers.
There was no memorial to the Fallen on Isstvan III. He felt shame at that, and had redoubled his search for the removed data records to no avail.
But there was something he could do. He smiled briefly to himself. Yes, he could do that.
"Again, Sara." She was getting emotional about that phrase. She came back on stance and repeated the sequence. Unarmed combat today, as it was every second day. No wonder space marines were so feared; the bloody man was tireless. He practised at least six hours a day, blades, bolters, unarmed, even heavy weapons, both in and out of armour, and still he found time to be forensic in his dissection of her faults even while he they were both going through standard sequences. She was out, she knew, even as she made the strike, and held up her hand.
"Morgan, I just can't get that stance change in armour. And the more I try the worse I am. I just can't seem to move that way; it's like I'm fighting the armour itself."
He nodded slowly. "We have been working for two hours, Sara, and you are tired. Take a shower and eat. Janey and myself shall run through some exercises, since she's obviously been waiting her turn. And do not worry about it. We shall work it out soon enough; you have it un-armoured already after all."
She nodded and drew herself up, fist to chest, facing the Legion banner in the ancient salute, bowed to him and walked back to get changed and clean again. The exercises had begun as curiosity more than a year ago, a way to keep in decent physical condition while confined aboard ship, but ever since the incident on Haura, Morgan had had her running and working four hours a day, every day, arguing that if she was going to fight, even if only occasionally, she was going to be as good as he could make her. She agreed with the principle, but it was hard work. The length of the processional, four kilometres, twice, with a thirty kilo pack every morning and evening; two two-hour sessions with blade, bolters or unarmed, one armoured and one un-armoured. She had put on weight, and lost centimetres from waist, hips and bust at the same time. Privately she was convinced she'd never been fitter, but she knew Morgan was not satisfied.
He, of course, was in incredible condition. He ran the processional too, but carrying four hundred kilos. And he did it four times to her twice, faster than Janey could keep up on the transporter she rode. And his reflexes were terrifyingly fast; he occasionally went against her all-out, just to measure her progress. She'd never laid a weapon on him, or even close. Not that that was any disgrace, he said. Only the better champions of the chaos Legions were of his standard, he said. It was little comfort.
She let the hot water sluice down her back, soothing her aching muscles. Food was a good idea; she was famished. She must be eating twice what she used to. So was Janey; even she, of the almost inexhaustible supply of energy, was hard put to keep up with the massive astartes. Weapons drill was not something Sara was entirely comfortable with exposing her daughter to, but with just the three of them, she had to admit it made sense. So Janey got normal lessons in the mornings, and played with knives in the afternoons, most days. Morgan had suggested that she should learn to shoot and Sara had baulked at that. Not yet; she wasn't even eight for another five months. She had though let Janey and Morgan run tactical simulations – they were educational as well as practical, and Janey seemed to like them. She very carefully tried not to think about exactly what they were simulating.
"Mummy's getting angry about that sequence."
The big marine nodded. "Yes. There is no reason why she cannot make the change, but it appears, as she said, that the armour resists it. Perhaps its spirit is not comfortable making astartes combat manoeuvres."
"What are we going to do about it?"
He smiled. "I have an idea. How would you like to make your mother a present?"
"A present?"
He nodded. "It will take some time, and take a lot of hard work, but I think it will be worth it."
Janey looked at him. "What kind of present?"
He leant over and murmured in her ear. She laughed and clapped her hands. "Mr Morgan, that's such a cool idea!"
He gave a smug look. "I thought so."
Sedreth was thoughtful as he went through his exercises. Sara was getting quite decent, which was fortunate, but there was something else at the back of his mind that wouldn't go away. His brothers who had died on Isstvan III deserved to be remembered. And yet, he did not know which of them had dropped to be betrayed and which squads had dropped as part of Eidolon's forces. He wondered where the information might be, running possible places through his mind. He had already checked the main banks; if it had been there, it was long deleted. So, where to find it?
"Mr Morgan."
He paused in mid-strike. "Yes, Janey?"
"Mr Morgan, you're out of time in that sequence. Look at your wrist. It should be straight."
He looked at himself. Hmm. She was right. Not a fatal error against most opponents, but against someone with the appropriate training or experience, or perhaps like an ork, the sheer power, to take advantage, it could open him to a possibly dangerous response. That will teach you to woolgather, Sedreth, he thought.
"Thank you, Janey. My mind was not focussed. That is a timely reminder."
He restarted the sequence, concentrating more fully on his moves. Hmm. That was fractionally out, too. Sedreth, either you're getting sloppy, or there's trouble brewing.
"Janey, I think we both need a break. I am distracted today, for some reason, and I know better than to ignore that sort of distraction. We shall continue this tomorrow."
She nodded, pleased to have found something that helped him. He lifted her easily and carried her through to their changing rooms.
"You go and have a shower, Janey. I shall have mine and meet you in the kitchen."
He let her down and she bounced away with a, "yes, Mr Morgan." He headed to change and shower himself, thoughts still whirling. He'd often found himself making minor lapses on the eve of battle, as if his body was trying to warn him of something it should not, could not, know about. He had once, during the Crusade, spoken with a Librarian of the White Scars about these premonitions, for the Children had had no Librarians at that time, and been told that it was subconscious, the body's instinctive recognition of oncoming conflict warring with his conscious mind's control. "Be grateful, brother Sedreth, for it may save your life one day. But do not let yourself rely on it." And he had not, preferring the logic of tactics and strategy. But today, even though shielded from the surrounding warp by the ship's Geller fields, he felt the oncoming storm as a living thing.
Sara smiled as she tucked her daughter in. "Good night, sweetheart. Sleep well."
"Goodnight, mummy." The small head snuggled down, bear and doll beside her on the pillow. She was asleep in a few moments, as always.
Sara sat for a while, then kissed the smooth forehead. Emperor look on you, my darling. She walked quietly out, leaving her beloved child smiling happily at some dream or other.
Sedreth was there, armoured and huge, in the short corridor. "She is asleep?"
"Yes. And it's time I turned in, too. And you. I know you don't seem to need sleep, Morgan, but you should get some anyway."
He chuckled softly. "I will sleep in a short while. But I have a surplus of energy tonight, so I shall work some of it off, first."
Sara smiled. "You do that. I am going to bed. Wake me when you finally decide to sleep; it's not fair that you take all the night watches."
He looked at her, amused. "If you insist. Sleep well, Sara." He turned and walked away, almost silent in his stride despite the hulking battle-suit. She watched the disappearing back until he turned the corner and sighed. Time for bed. She opened her door and walked in, readying herself for the usual pain of an empty bed and missing husband. Oh, Kanret, I hope we're doing the right thing.
Sedreth dozed, half-awake in that state than only the astartes catelepsian node can engender. He was partially alert, as sections of his brain switched off and on, allowing him to rest while not resting. It took considerable training to use the node correctly, or long practice. He had both. But it still took him a few seconds to react to the blinking light on the control panel. Fuck! The Geller fields. He swore aloud, and fired the warp drive, opening a hole to realspace which the ship dropped through with a sickening lurch. Then he was on his feet and heading for the sleeping quarters at all his considerable speed.
Kanret! He was just out of reach as she reached desperately for her husband. My love, come back to me. Sara begged and pleaded as her beloved turned away. No!
Sedreth burst into the room, the brightly shining pinion on his armour illumination enough. Not today! He swung the feather through the viscous, coalescing darkness and was rewarded by a scream of rage. Grabbing the purity seal from Sara's jacket he pressed it to her forehead, closing her fingers round it even as he scooped her up, bedclothes and all, and ran into Janey's room.
A voice spoke in his mind, amused and cruel. 'Too Late, Traitor. She Is Mine.'
"For the Emperor!" He burst through the sickly purple cloud around the writhing girl and lifted her, pulling her and her mother close to his chest and dashing for the chapel, now glowing with a white rage he could feel like a living thing.
Behind him he could feel them coming, their insubstantial forms taking on flesh. Good, he thought viciously. Let them come. He stepped into the glowing chapel, light spilling out into the corridor beyond and rewarding him with a frustrated scream, and placed both sleeping forms beside the shining altar.
Well, my Emperor, if you truly have tasked us, I could do with a hand right now.
As if in answer the remote in his left hand glowed green and he grinned as he re-activated the Geller fields. Screams of anger and pain echoed in his mind, satisfyingly loud. He turned, racking his bolter and taking Sara's powersword from its place on the altar. Now, you fuckers.
He drew a breath, looked at the two still-sleeping forms of Sara and Janey; they looked at ease now, no longer moaning and writhing. Time for a bit of vengeance, then. He stepped into the corridor.
"I know you're there, bitch. Come out, Astryaliliath. Let's see how good you are." His challenge was deliberate taunting, irresistible to a daemon which lived on emotion, and he knew it. A twisted purple form lunged from the shadows and the corridors suddenly shone bright, as if Phoenix herself fought with him. The powersword cleft head from neck and the daemonette fell.
"Brought some help, did you? What, one marine too much for you?"
She, it, slid into view, every move a sensual overload. He laughed, unaffected, as another appeared. And another.
"Only three? You haven't much opinion of me, do you? I'll have to change that."
A burst of fire ripped into one's chest and he spun, blade a blur of motion. They were not as fast as they should have been, perhaps slowed by the shining light from the Emperor's chapel. He gave no second chances, killing them with brutal efficiency, blue-black blood spitting and hissing in the energy field of his blade.
"Impressive, Morgan Sedreth. But I Am Not Like Them." The voice was massive, the same as in Sara's room. He turned from the dissolving corpses, met the glowing eyes of the horror as it came into view, easy and confident in its own power. A Keeper of Secrets. His bolter was empty and he dropped it, unholstering his bolt pistol in an easy movement and assuming a guardian stance with the glowing powersword at parry.
"Are you just going to talk?"
The Keeper laughed and moved to the attack with eye-tricking speed. His pistol came up; it didn't even attempt to dodge the bolts. Stupid bastard. The daemon screamed in surprised agony as the blessed rounds tore out its thorax; he drove the powersword in under the massive jaw, unheeding of the psy-scream that should have disabled him, deaf to everything but the need to defend his ship and his companions. Head severed, it collapsed, its form dissolving into smoke. He felt the enraged Presence of the thing as it was forced from the confines of the ship.
"The Emperor protects, daemon. Remember it."
He chuckled wryly. Or more accurately, the Ultramarines protect. He would have to thank brother-Librarian Semetis next time he saw him. He shrugged and started a sweep in case he'd missed any.