Here Be Dragons

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Prologue: Distant Memories

 

I remember the first day I ever saw a Space Marine. It was in the seventy-fifth year after the Titanus Mons had been swallowed by the Droving Sea. My best friend Ranen woke me in my bed. "Come quick!" he said to me. "There's a battle brewing!"

I was still young at the time, maybe eleven or twelve years old by standard reckoning, so of course the thought had me scrabbling for clothes so I could watch the combat unfold. I ran upstairs, coming out on the roof of our crawler. Medusa's black clouds crashed and roiled above us as they always have -- and still do -- and it was only my keen night vision, a by-product of generations living in near-total darkness, that let me see what was going on.

Our crawler, and those of the rest of the Tekton Clan, were halted, busy mining out a vein of cadmium that one of the prospectors had found. I leaned over the crenellated battlements topping our crawler, but could see no enemies approaching us. Ranen punched me and pointed to the other side of the roof, where his brother Gideon was standing. I rushed over, and felt my heart leap within my chest.

The ground sloped down and away our crawler, but at the bottom of the hill was an armored vehicle, a trickle of black smoke spilling from its exhausts. It was a squat and slab-sided tank, painted jet-black with glittering silver trim, the white hand prominently displayed on its glacis plate. The rear ramp was open, and five giants in black and silver power armor were standing at the Rhino's rear in a neat rank. Further on were three more such demigods, easily picked out despite the good kilometer and half between us, sitting on giant motorized cycles. The two lines of Astartes sat and stared at each other for a moment, then the bikers gunned the engines of their steeds of steel and charged. Both lines poured bolter-fire into each other, advancing methodically and machine-like. I watched the battle unfold as warriors of the Adeptus Astartes killed each other in cold blood, fighting over who would get the cadmium that my Clan was mining. The roar of the bolters was audible even at that range, overpowering the throaty growl of the bikes and the idling grumble of the Rhino.

It was an awe-inspiring sight, watching those titans of war blast and bludgeon each other to death. Eight Space Marines fought that day. Only three of them walked away.

What a waste.

At supper that night, I asked my parents about it. Why did the Iron Hands, our lords and protectors, fight amongst themselves? Couldn't they see that it only hurt them as a whole?

My mother laughed at what she called my foolishness. Ferrus Manus had taught them, as he had taught us, that conflict weeds out the weak and strengthens the survivors. By fighting each other, the holy Astartes were purging the weakest of their own battle-brothers. It proved who was strong and cleared out the weaker brothers from their ranks, opening up room for Medusans who might prove the stronger to join their ranks.

Rubbish. And I said so.

Mother whipped me that night before putting me to bed for having the audacity to argue against the tenets of the Light-Bringer. I hurt so bad I couldn't sit or lie on my back, so I went to bed lying on my stomach, face buried in my thin pillow. "Stop crying," my mother scolded me. "Crying is for the weak." I choked back my pained sobs so that she wouldn't hit me again, but that didn't stop the tears from forming or take the sting out of my backside.

I couldn't sleep, so I knew when my father came to my room. He sat and stared at me for a while before he spoke.

"I know you're awake," he said quietly so that Mother wouldn't hear. "And I have a secret to tell you. Can you keep a secret?"

I sniffled and rubbed at my eyes. "I will! I promise."

My father smiled then. He leaned in close and spoke in a hushed conspiratorial tone. "I agree with what you said, but we can't have your mother knowing that." I was shocked, to say the least. He explained. "These tests of strength and weeding out of the weak are wasteful. All of the time and effort that goes into turning a simple man into a Space Marine, and they discard all of that in ridiculously bloody pissing matches over who owns what patch of land on which day of the week. Absolutely daft, isn't it?"

I just nodded.

"But you know what? We're not alone, you and I."

"We're not?" I asked, entranced now.

"No, son, we're not," he answered. "Beyond the scorched skies of our world lies a wider galaxy with thousands upon thousands of planets filled with people who think like you and me. And amongst their numbers are other Space Marines, others who know without doubt that the Iron Hands that our people so slavishly lavish praise upon are wasteful, stupid, and weak." He paused, gauging my response. I was rapt with fascination, of course. "Would you like to meet them?"

"Oh, yes!" I replied with the kind of boundless enthusiasm that only children are capable of.

"Some day you might!" he replied with a laugh, giving me a fatherly pat on the head. "But until that day comes, I can teach you about them. Their ways. . . our ways."

"Our?"

He stood up and took off his smock, showing me the crude tattoo that covered his chest. His fingers traced the lines as my instruction began. "This, son, is the namesake of our world. Medusa. A figure of legend, from far beyond the time when the Light-Bringer came to us. Medusa was a pagan goddess who was cursed to be so horrid that all who look upon her turned to stone."

I remember thinking it was an apt name. To live on Medusa, one had to be hard as granite. Harder.

"The most hideous part of her was these," he said as his finger ran along the snakes that sprouted from the top of the Medusa's head. "Her hair, once billowing and soft and beautiful, turned to a nest of serpents. Each serpent had a mind of its own, capable of independent thought and action, but all were still part of one greater whole -- like the Clans of our people. A fitting name for our world, yes?"

I nodded again, confused as to where he was going with this. But all was about to become clear. I was about to be taught the first and greatest lesson I would need as an Astartes: never take anything at face value.

"Take another look at this tattoo, son. Yes, it shows the Medusa and is devotional to our home. But its meaning is deeper than that, for there is another fable from the time of the Medusa. There was another great serpent, one whose many heads were, like Medusa's hair, independent of each other yet part of one greater being.

"They called it the hydra."

[Skirax]

Very good beginning. I'm interested, and demand more!