Chapter 6.3 The Cost of Sympathy
Vulkan gasped awake, pain momentarily wracking his body. He spluttered and coughed as black, viscous fluid was brought up from his lungs and vomited forth onto the floor of his chambers. Bile and blood slopped forth from a wound in his side, and smell of death was pungent in the air. Pests in the form of flies and other scourges buzzed and crawled across the deck beneath Vulkan's feet.
After a moment, Vulkan composed himself. This wasn't the first time he had come back from the dead. It wasn't even the first time he'd come back from a death caused by this disease.
He couldn't remember how long they had been trapped in the warp. Perhaps it was days, maybe years. He also couldn't remember how many times he had died. He had died before, in times before warp. He remembered dying in different ways, but they were fading memories as his mind became consumed by the near daily death, rebirth, death cycle that had become his world.
An endless cycle.
Stepping from his bed, still slick with the liquids that issued forth daily, Vulkan walked out through the doorway and into the corridor. It was much the same as it had been before. Several of his sons remained collapsed on the floor, their armour sealed to hide the rashes, wounds and bubbling poxes that covered their bodies. All of them were still, using what energy they could muster to stay alive.
The Eighteenth Legion, the Salamanders, had continued their distinguished service to the Imperium proudly after death of Horus and the rise of Sanguinius as Warmaster. Vulkan had a good relationship with most of his brothers, but Sanguinius shared in his jovial nature.
Their compliances continued uneventfully after Vulkan's return from Terra. However, their latest warp jump had taken them straight into the middle of a raging storm, which after passing the outer limits left them becalmed in the sea of the warp, unable to go forwards or backward, drifting aimlessly in the void.
At first they had tried to quarantine the infected.
It has been suggested that the virus had been picked up from their previous compliance without much concern. The Remembrancers were the first to show symptoms, the entire lot locked down to avoid the spread to the military branches. But as time went on, more and more of the human crew and soldiers started to fall ill, which was distressing for the Primarch to see so many brave men and women suffer.
Still, this was no threat to the Astartes with their enhanced genes. All would be resolved when they escaped the warp storm and returned to the materium. Those who could be saved would be and all would be well.
But then Astartes started falling ill. An impossibility that defied logic. A plague that spread across every living being, even animals that shared no genetic ancestry with humanity. It shaped itself and evolved to be the exact thing, the exact weakness of its host. This was unsurprising, all viruses do this as part of their parasitic life cycle. What was unusual was the speed of its evolution, far greater than even an ordinary virus, and precession of its evolution, losing nothing in its strength as its infectiousness increased.
Unsurprisingly, Vulkan had been the last to fall ill. Before that, when the quarantine wasn't working, he had ordered fire teams to prowl the ships of his fleet, purging and burning the corridors with the stink of Promethium everywhere. The walls of every vessel were now scorched and charred, the bright paints and decorations that had been there before now either blackened ruins or replaced by the oxidized metal underneath. From these walls a corrosive rust had begun to spread, much like the virus that infested the living.
As Vulkan stalked the halls, he came upon row after row of his sons collapsed on the floor or propped up against structures, all breathing heavily and fighting to control the sickness that raged within. He passed by corpses of the humans, most of which had already perished from the disease, their frail immune systems unable to keep up with the virus' rapacious appetite.
"You can save them."
The voice again. Vulkan clutched his head as the sound echoed around inside his skull. It kept talking to him. It wasn't human. It was like a river gurgling, like a mountain splitting, like a corpse decaying. It had spoken to him many times since he fell ill, but its voice had gotten strong with every passing death.
"I cannot save them," murmured Vulkan, "All is lost… the apothecaries succumb to the sickness. There is no cure. There is no way out."
"The cycle is endless…" said the voice, "But it is not the end. It is a gift."
"Enough with your vile whispers!" yelled Vulkan, "Begone with you! Let us die in peace…"
"You need to see…" whispered the unseen, "The gift is a part of you. Embrace it. Embrace the rot."
Vulkan turned to look at his wrist as fresh boil emerged from his skin. From the other arm, a cluster of buboes erupted spilling more black ichor onto the deck. There was no pain anymore, Vulkan had become numb to the sensation many weeks before. Or was it hours? Or years?
"This is not a thing to be embraced," muttered Vulkan, "This is a plague! A sickness! It is to be fought and be rid of!"
"Much like the plague of humanity that spreads throughout the stars, killing everything it touches…"
"No," said Vulkan emphatically, "Our kind are not a plague. We bring purpose to the stars which cry out for life."
"But you kill everything that you cannot dominate. You even devour your own kind in your quest for homogeneity. You bring ruinous change wherever you go. You sacrifice the old for the new, you force alteration where stability and constancy ruled for eons."
"We bring peace…" protested Vulkan, "We bring order… it is necessary…"
"MONARCHIAaaa…" hissed the voice.
Vulkan clutched his head at the sound and tears began to fall from his eyes.
He thought back to the conversations he had endured with Lorgar following the death of Horus and the funeral on Terra. It had been painful as the sad, conflicted Lord of the Word Bearers had gone into excruciating detail as to the suffering that had been inflicted upon his symbolic world by the Thirteenth Legion. The suffering of the people, the innocent. They would have abandoned their idolatry to the Emperor if asked, a conversation would have made them loyal children of the Imperium. But instead they were slaughtered…
"Yesss…" came the voice in a smug tone, "The innocent die, worlds suffer, all for doing as they were told. There is no sympathy in your Imperium. The Slave runs wild, slaughtering all before him in berserk rage. The Night Haunter defiles every world he finds. There rest are no better. Even the proud Senator slaughters the innocent at your Father's command."
"It… is necessary…" whispered Vulkan, sinking to the floor.
He couldn't deny it. Some of his brothers were monsters. Perhaps all of them. The Imperium wasn't built on enlightenment. It was built on blood and pain. They weren't bringing a prosperous future. They were enslaving the galaxy to the Emperor's will. He didn't care how many bodies and how much suffering was used to build his Empire, only that it was built. He tried to believe that it was for something, but if such minor infractions were punished with annihilation where was the justice?
"Why... Father," mourned Vulkan, "Why do you punish your own subjects..."
"Why suffer? Why have such agony?" asked the voice, "You can be free of pain, free of sadness, free of suffering."
"I…" began Vulkan, his voice giving way to the tide of emotion he felt. He wanted to be free. Free of killing. Free of destroying. Free of ending, free of changing. Free of being a monster at his Father's command.
"And not just you," continued the voice, "Your sons. Your precious sons, and all that still remain here. They can be restored, they can made free of pain, the pain that cripples them and you."
"I must save them…" murmured Vulkan, looking at the bodies of his beloved sons cast down on the deck before him, "I must… save… them."
"Then accept the gift. Accept it on behalf of your sons. Once you accept all shall be well, no longer will the be restricted by the ignorance. With it will come truth, understanding. With it will come life eternal for your sons, so that they might be with their Father forever. The blessings of Nurgle, the Lord of Decay, shall prevent the end. Like you, they will be perpetual. Beings whose lives are not measured in years, but in infinities."
"They will have no more pain?" asked Vulkan, watching the form of First Captain Artellus Numeon attempting to crawl across the floor to his Primarch, agony written across his plague infected features. This wasn't about him anymore. He couldn't be selfish. No matter how he felt, he needed to save his sons and anyone else he could.
"No more pain," promised the voice.
"Then…" murmured Vulkan, letting go of the little part of him that rejected the idea for his own sake, "I accept your deal. I embrace the gifts, and I save my sons from their suffering."
As suddenly as it had appeared, the warp storm faded. In a shuddering jolt, the entire fleet emerged into real space. Hundreds of ships, thousands of Astartes and what auxiliaries remained found themselves once more in the quiet void between worlds. All was still. All was stagnant.
Around Vulkan his sons began to rise, the infections still plain on their faces, but no longer encumbered by pain. Joy leapt to his heart as he saw his beloved sons stand once more. First Captain Artellus rose to his feet and approached his Primarch, his face a mix of deference and surprise.
"What has happened, my Lord?" asked Artellus, "We are… we are free of the storm."
"Indeed we are my son," beamed Vulkan, "Tell me, First Captain, how do you feel?"
"I feel… well," admitted Artellus, "I feel the sickness within me still, but there is no pain. There is no distress, it is like it is a part of me. Like the hairs on my head, or the nails on my fingers. I do not feel limited in any way."
"I am glad," boomed Vulkan, "It seems our benefactor has held up their end of the bargain."
"My Lord Vulkan," came a raspy voice over the internal vox, "We are receiving a hail from the Fidelitas Lex. The Warmaster and Lord Lorgar wish to speak with you."
"I shall be right there," exclaimed Vulkan, marching towards the bridge with his First Captain in tow.
Upon arriving on the bridge, Vulkan was met with the images of both Sanguinius and Lorgar, silently waiting for their brother to respond. The Great Angel, solumn and beautiful as always, and the Lord of the Word Bearers with a look of satisfaction on his face. Vulkan took a seat on the command chair of the Flamewrought and signaled for the communications to be resumed.
"Greetings, brother Vulkan, are you- my the thrones!" exclaimed Sanguinius with horror, "Brother! What happened to you?!"
"Fear not, Warmaster, brother of mine Sanguinius," replied Vulkan, that familiar friendliness shining though, "I am well! Do not let my appearance fool you. I am not in any pain. You yourself look like you have suffered some injury. That is a terrible scar you carry. I hope it does not pain you."
Sanguinius reached up and subconsciously touched the scar on his face, remembering once again he had been marked by the Night Haunter's rage.
"I see the blessings of Nurgle upon you brother," said Lorgar calmly, "It is good you have seen the truth and accepted his gifts."
"Indeed! Brother Lorgar," confirmed Vulkan, "I see now the truth. Our actions have brought nought but pain to the galaxy! Pain and suffering. If we are to lead our kind into the future it must be through other means. We must end the suffering and share in the gifts such as the ones we have been granted!"
"You have seen the truth?" asked Sanguinius cautiously, "That our Father hides secrets of the warp from us? That Horus' death was preventable?"
"Not just Horus, my Warmaster," replied Vulkan, "Countless millions on many worlds. They died for our purity, for our Father's desires to change humanity into something it is not. We sought to purge the beautiful variance of the galaxy with fire. We are not perfect beings to be molded in his image. We are flawed but free to dream and live as we always have! We should not force others to become as we, just because we have the power to do. We should not force change on this galaxy, but let it remain as it has always been."
"I am troubled by your appearance, Vulkan," admitted Sanguinius, "But your thoughts echo mine. We have caused enough suffering in this foolish project of our Father. We shall forge a new Imperium, of many creeds and colours, of many cultures and traditions. We shall be free of pain and suffering, and we shall uncover more secrets to end death as a concept to our species."
"That is gift which is already mine!" nodded Vulkan, "But this particular gift is not for all. If we need to make or uncover other gifts from other benefactors then let us do so! I wish to see a new Imperium where we do not need to sacrifice the past for the sake of the future. Where pain is but a distant memory to all!"
"Then we are of an accord, my brother," said Sanguinius with some relief, "I would ask you stand by me, as we go to Terra to confront our Father about the secrets he has kept from us, and to create a new Primordial Essence which can bestow similar gifts as yours to all our kin."
"I will do so gladly, brother!" said Vulkan, a pleasant grin emitting from behind the scars and diseased flesh, "We shall help our Father see reason. Together we shall reform the Imperium to be the way it should have always have been. Where change is not forced, and where death is but a memory."