Unrepentant Son (Updated 4/29)

[Algorithm]

Chapter One

"If you are near to your enemy, appear to be far." -Sun Tzu

 

Captain Rentin straightened up as the freighter’s retros fired, blowing the accumulated dust from the seldom-used landing pad. He swallowed, watching the descent with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. He was about to have an experience few in the Imperium ever would, and he knew it.

 

Walls crowned with razorwire enclosed the small rockcrete landing pad of the Armillo North Penal Complex, a backwater location on the backwater world of Kerris. Rentin led the three-hundred strong detail of planetary enforcers assigned to this facility, though sometimes we wondered why the inmates needed to be guarded art all. Armillo North sat in the middle of a vast wasteland, far removed from any of Kerris’s cities and accessible only via the landing pads. Anyone who escaped the facility would never make it far regardless.

 

Still, it was a paycheck, and as thankless as Captain Rentin’s job was, it was his way of serving the Emperor. It didn’t hurt that it also helped him avoid conscription. He preferred to be a big fish in a small pond, and Armillo North was as small a pond as they came.

 

Things were changing, and facing change made Rentin’s guts roil. He shielded his dark eyes against the swirling grit, watching as the freighter touched down at last. The craft, he reflected, looked disappointingly nondescript considering it’s occupants. He didn’t know what he had expected one of the Emperor’s space marines to arrive in, but a common freighter wouldn’t have been his guess.

Rentin fought another wave of anxiety-induced nausea. He was about to meet an Astartes, and not just any Astartes, but one arriving to transact business on behalf of the Inquisition. His notice of his guest’s arrival arrived only this morning, with no preamble, almost no opportunity to prepare and absolutely no explanation.

 

Had he been lax in his duties? Captain Rentin doubted that he or any of his enforcers had behaved so negligently as to draw attention to Armillo North. Besides, the Holy fragging Inquisition surely wouldn’t waste their time with quality control of a prison under planetary jurisdiction on a half-forgotten world! They wouldn’t send a bloody Astartes.

 

Rentin glanced over his shoulder, making sure the honor guard he had assembled was in place. “Honor guard”. What a laughable word for his senior staff. Most of the men in charge of Armillo North were like him. They outwardly complained about the monotony of their lives, but inwardly Rentin knew they all enjoyed their exemption from conscription into the Guard. Everyone had heard about the major Archenemy offensive occurring light years away in the Cadia system. None of them relished the prospect of dying in that conflict.

 

They were no honor guard, but they effected the pose nonetheless. For once, Rentin had to make sure each of his senior staff were completely in uniform and conducting themselves professionally. He had thus far run a laid back command. So long as the prisoners were properly locked down each night and violent episodes were kept at a minimum, Rentin could care less.

 

The freighter’s engines cycled down, the whine drawing down to a growl and then to a low rumble. Rentin risked a quick burst of vox communication to his officers via his microbead.

 

“Don’t embarrass me, damn you all.” He cut the link without waiting for a reply, watching as the freighter's doors slid opened.

 

For a long moment, no one emerged from the darkness of the freighter’s interior. The engines died as power finally bled out of them, their noise replaced by the occasional whisper of the wasteland winds blowing outside the compound walls. After what felt to Rentin like an eternity, a massive figure emerged from the transport, moving far too quietly for someone his size.

 

It was the space marine, and he stood alone at the top of the ramp that extended down from the freighter’s exit hatch. He stood in a massive suit of baroque black power armor, his head enclosed by a helm that glared out at Rentin with glowing red lenses. The right shoulder guard was painted with the stylized “I” of the Inquisition chased in silver. The left was painted green, with the white icon of a winged sword painted on its gleaming surface. The warrior had a scabbarded weapon at his belt, its hilt a barbed black, and subtly disturbing to look at for too long a period. The astartes stood regarding them for a few moments, dust blowing away from the grille at the front of his helm as he breathed.

 

All things considered, it was the most impressive sight Rentin had ever seen.

 

He snapped what he hoped looked like a sharp salute, hoping his honor guard was following his example as he had coached them.

 

“Captain Ierius Rentin, acting warden of Armillo North Detention Facility, ready to serve my lord!” He called out, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. The marine descended the ramp alone and unaccompanied, his gait that of an accomplished and fearless warrior.

 

“Captain Rentin,” The astartes spoke, his deep, resonant voice made impersonal and imposing by the vox amplification of his armor. “I am Jurek of the Dark Angels, seconded to the Death Watch, here on behalf of the Ordo Xenos. I greet you.”

 

Rentin lowered his salute.

 

“You’ll have to forgive me, my lord.” He began, his confidence waning. “I am at a disadvantage. I have not yet been briefed on the reason for your-“

 

“Prisoner #9-8k. That is why I am here.” The Dark Angel interrupted.

 

Rentin felt his face growing red. The astartes clearly expected him to know the prisoner referred to, but with no database to consult, the captain had no idea who the marine was talking about. His mouth opened once, twice, a stammering reply forming on his lips.

 

“He is imprisoned in your solitary ward." The Dark Angel stated. "He is charged with desertion, murdering two enforcers and conspiring to sell military secrets. Sentenced to death, recently currently stayed pending Inquisitorial interrogation, but your databases may not reflect that yet. He is a male, forty standard Terran years of athletic build. He is a former storm trooper, specializing in infiltration and intelligence, until deserting his regiment and living as a freelance mercenary here on Kerris. He has two horizontal scars on his torso and a tattoo on his right shoulder bearing the iconography of his former regiment.”

 

“Yes.” Rentin replied, dazzled. “Him.”

 

“He is in possession of intelligence vital to the retrieval of xenos contraband, and the Inquisition will be taking custody of him. You will lead me to Prisoner #9-8k and dispense of further formality.”

[Algorithm]

They called this room “the Cage”, and it sat overlooking the six wings that pushed outwards from the central hub the Cage sat atop, the very core of the prison complex. Banks of cogitators lined the hexagonal walls, positioned before armored glass windows offering a view of the lower hub. At each edge of the hexagonal hub, a massive steel door stood marked with a roman numeral, running I through VI.

 

Menials gaped in awe as Rentin led the Dark Angel into the Cage, the massive warrior regarding the stunned mortals with disinterest.

 

“As you were!” Rentin snapped, feeling increasingly embarrassed by every slight lapse of his staff. Sluggishly, as though in a dream, menials and enforcers turned back to their duties. “Apologies, lord. It is not every day that we get someone of your stature here.”

 

The Dark Angel nodded, saying nothing. Rentin’s senior staff still followed, seemingly unsure how or where to stand now that they had left the landing pad and marched to the central hub of Armillo North. Rentin felt himself growing embarrassed again by their awkward shuffles every time the group came to a halt.

 

He cleared his throat.

 

“This is the Cage. From here you can see our six wards, each containing five blocks of cells, each ward extending out structurally from the Cage. Wards I-III are reserved for nonviolent criminal offenders.” Rentin explained, gesturing to each of the doors below in turn. Ward IV is for politicals.”

 

“Politicals?” The Dark Angel asked.

 

“Erm, that is, those who have been jailed for violations of the Sedition and Terrorism Act. Ever since the renewed Archenemy offensive, the Lord Sector has decreed that all worlds of the Faustus Sector enact a body of law providing for mandatory life sentences for behavior that jeopardizes the Imperial war effort, or encourages seditious thought.”

 

“I see.” The Dark Angel answered.

 

“Kerris is no exception. You can tell the Inquisition that we brook no heresy on this world, lord!” Rentin tried to make his smile look natural, and his tone exuberant.

 

The Dark Angel looked impassively at him.

 

One of the honor guard sniggered.

 

Rentin cleared his throat again. “So that’s ward IV. Ward V is reserved for violent offenders. Most prisons would have the highest concentration of enforcers there, but not Armillo North. We keep most of our enforcers stationed in the non-violent wards, since they have a lower probability of being overrun. My thinking is the enforcers can take time to rally here at the Cage before responding to an incident in the other wards.” He looked at the Dark Angel, as though hoping for some sign of approval of his strategic decision. None seemed forthcoming. Captain Rentin pointed, his hand shaking. “Ward VI is reserved for the worst scum. They are classified not by the nature of their underlying crime, but by their inherently dangerous nature. Each prisoner in that ward is kept in solitary confinement on constant lockdown. #9-8k is there, my lord.”

 

“He has killed in his time here?” The Dark Angel asked.

 

“He has, lord. Four prisoners.” Rentin replied, consulting a data slate handed to him by an aide.

 

The Dark Angel nodded. “You can control the entry into each ward from this tower?”

 

Captain Rentin nodded. “We even have a master override here. If for whatever reason one ward falls to mass prisoner disobedience, we can engage a lethal gas system on a ward by ward basis from this room. Each ward has its own substation that controls individual cellblock mag-lock systems, and each ward has its own armory, the door of which can only be opened from here. This prevents prisoners from getting access to weapons.

 

Rentin watched the Dark Angel, hoping the layers of security were impressing the astartes. Impress an astartes? Rentin inwardly cursed his own stupid thought.

 

“Open the cells.” The Dark Angel commanded, waving his hand at the massive doors with the numerals on them.

 

Rentin laughed nervously. “I’m sorry lord, maybe I didn’t explain the process well. We don’t open individual cells from up here. Only the blast doors leading to each ward. I’ll open VI for you so we can proceed to your prisoner.”

 

“You explained the process fine.” The Dark Angel answered. “Open all of the blast doors.”

 

Rentin stared at the astartes, and then darted a glance to his senior staff. They look as puzzled as him.

 

“Um, lord I-“

 

“Unless you plan to punish me under the Sedition and Terrorism Act? I have, after all, been fighting the forces of the Emperor for thousands of years before you were born.” The Dark Angel answered, pulling the black-hilted sword from his scabbard. The sword that emerged pulsed in a way that no metal should, as though it was organic. As he looked at it, Rentin fancied he could hear the voice of Kayla, a junior recruit he fancied, in his head. She said such filthy words, words a girl like her would never say.

 

Purple tendrils emerged from the hilt of the weapon, slithering like snakes to the space marine’s gauntlet and pushing into his hand. The Dark Angel shuddered as the tendrils penetrated his armor and pushed into his flesh, and Rentin swore he could hear the sword squeal with pleasure.

 

“What-“ was all Rentin managed to say before the astartes skewered him with the weapon, the daemon blade stealing the life from his body in one moment of blinding pain. Rentin flopped to the floor as the cursed weapon withdrew, dead with his mouth agape.

 

The enforcers of the honor guard drew their shotguns, but the astartes was incredibly fast. The daemon blade chopped down and bisected the nearest enforcer from shoulder to groin. Blood arced through the air as the return stroke of the sword decapitated a second enforcer, his body and weapon tumbling to the floor.

 

A shotgun blast echoed in the Cage, but it was not directed at the astartes. One of the enforcers, a sergeant from the honor guard, brought his weapon up and shot one of his fellows in the back of the head. He racked the weapon, ejecting a spent shell as he turned and blasted another of his shocked comrades.

 

Menials screamed and began to flee in terror, but the massive astartes moved in front of the door, blocking the exit. A dozen or so people, including two surviving enforcers, cowered on the ground, covering their faces in a show of submission.

 

No one had raised the alarm.

 

“I would prefer,” the astartes began, flicking the dribbling blood from his daemon weapon to the floor. “To keep the rest of you alive. You may be of use. But if you do not stop whimpering, I will kill everyone in this room. Hush.”

 

The screams died down to pitiful moans.

 

The astartes turned his head to the sergeant, who stood in his enforcer uniform, the shotgun he had killed his allies with still smoking in his hands.

 

“Hydra Dominatus, my Lord Durmanhoth.” The traitor said. He was a man the enforcers had called Weylan. His real name was Balchus. He was smiling. Years of deception were over.

 

“Hydra Dominatus, operative,” replied Durmanhoth of the Alpha Legion.

[Brother Ambroz]

Very good. Will you be doing more? Hope so.

[Olis]

Very well done, brother. For a moment there I was thinking this would be a story relating to the Inquisition and then out of nowhere comes an Alpha Legionnaire. I did briefly think the astartes might have been Cypher, though. I request more, good sir. :tu:

[Algorithm]

Newly sworn enforcer Silas Volk yawned, watching the steaming caffeine flow from the beaker into his mug. He couldn’t believe his shift was beginning again already. He felt as though he had barely closed his eyes ten minutes before the shift rotation bell chimed. He couldn’t wait until for his first rotation back to civilization, away from Armillo North. He was already beginning to regret his career choice.

 

Silas slurped down the first hot gulp of the caffeine, and turned to his fellow enforcers in the ready room of Ward II. Calling it the “ready room” was a joke. None of the follow-up shift was ready for duty yet. Men sat around scratching, yawning, buttoning on their flak vests or else bantering back and forth. Silas’s eyes found Haller, the only man he really considered a friend amongst the enforcers here.

 

“Could use a hit of amasec in this.” Silas quipped, giving his mug a slight shake as he took a seat alongside Haller. Chairs were arranged in eight rows of five, facing a lectern in the center where the shift commander would be delivering the evening briefing shortly.

 

“Wouldn’t do much to wake you up.” Haller grunted, barely awake himself. His face bore more stubble than was regulation. He was certain to get an ass chewing for neglecting to shave.

 

“Would warm me a bit though.” Silas said. “Throne, it’s cold in here. Old Rentin has no clue how to keep temperatures steady in this hole. Always burning hot or freezing bloody cold.”

 

“Take comfort in the captain’s pain,” Haller said. “I hear some top brass is coming in today. If it’s an inspection, there’s no way Captain Rentin will pass muster.”

 

“Haller, you idiot.” Silas snorted. “For someone who’s two months my senior here, you really don’t understand what that means for us? If Rentin blows an inspection, :( will roll downhill. It always does.” He sipped the caffeine again. “He’ll be humiliated, but then he’ll overcompensate. That stubble on your face? Crap like that won’t fly anymore.”

 

Haller frowned, considering this. Throne, he was dense. He opened his mouth to reply.

 

A shrill klaxon blared over the voxcasters lining the wall, startling the enforcers in the ready room and eliciting yelps of surprise. It was a pulsing, harsh noise, punctuated by an oddly calm, modulated female voice.

 

“BE ADVISED.” The voice on the vox caster said. “PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN THREE MINUTES. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

 

A groan of fear went up from the enforcers, several men starting to their feet.

 

“What the hell?” Silas stammered, spilling his caffeine as he rose to his feet. “The failsafe? The bloody gas they release when the ward is lost? Why the hell is it being deployed now?!”

 

Haller didn’t answer, his eyes bugging out as he watched the panicking enforcers around him with mute shock.

 

The alert blared again.

 

“BE ADVISED. PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN TWO MINUTES, THIRTY SECONDS. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

 

The voxbeads of all enforcers in the entire ward activated as one. It was their shift commander, broadcasting to all of his subordinates.

 

“It’s unclear why the alert has been raised,” sergeant Pulson’s voice crackled over the link, his confusion and alarm thinly masked by his official manner. “The Cage isn’t responding. All enforcers across the ward, head for the blast doors. Go!”

 

The men started up, fighting panic as they poured from the ready room into the main corridor leading back to the Cage. Silas was jostled in behind Haller as the group of enforcers moved as one. Their urge to panic remained restrained just beneath the surface as they moved, urging one another on impatiently. They met other knots of enforcers, moving from their various duty stations or billets and spilling into the hallway to become a single herd.

 

They moved past a cellblock.

 

Prisoners on lockdown screamed at them in fear and confusion as the enforcers sidled past. They implored for release, for explanation, grasping desperately as the enforcers passed them.

 

“BE ADVISED. PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN TWO MINUTES. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

 

Halfway through the cellblock, and Silas had to shield his face as the prisoners began throwing debris and rolls of toilet paper at them as they passed, disorder breaking out as inmates began to fight one another in their angst. The noise was deafening. Silas tried to tune it all out and focus on the traffic on his voxbead.

 

“Anyone heard from the Cage? There’s no-“

 

“-channels are blocked! Stay off the vox!”

 

“I and III are having the same alert! Maybe it’s just a malfunction!”

 

The noise of the block died away as the enforcers rounded a corner, and the blast doors leading to the Cage came into view. The massive red-painted adamantium loomed at the end of the hallway, a white “II” stenciled on its face.

 

The door remained closed.

 

“BE ADVISED. PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN ONE MINUTE. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

 

“Why isn’t it opening for us?!” Haller yelled to Silas over the clamor. “There’s no riot going on! We have the ward!”

 

Silas felt himself running faster as the door neared, his eyes fixed on the numerals, mentally imagining the door swinging opened on it’s colossal hinges.

 

Open, damn it. OPEN.

 

His heart sank as he saw sergeant Pulsen standing before the door, pounding frantically on its surface. If his shift commander couldn’t get the Cage to cancel the alert, or open the door…

 

“BE ADVISED. PRIMARY FAILSAFE PROTOCOL INITIATED. SARIN GAS RELEASE IMMINENT IN THIRTY SECONDS. YOU ARE IN THE SATURATION ZONE. CONTACT YOUR SHIFT COMMANDER FOR EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS.”

 

Enforcers were screaming now, panic overwhelming them as they arrived at the sealed door. Fists banged against it. Men cried out. Silas lost track of Haller somewhere in the surging crowd. Against all reason, he switched his voxbead to the command frequency, hearing a confused garble of cries and screams from enforcers in several wards, not just II.

 

Knowing it would do no good with the jam of vox traffic, Silas screamed into the link.

 

“Open the damned door! Captain! Open the door please!”

 

*****************

 

 

Almost a minute later, Durmanhoth watched quietly on a dozen monitors as the enforcers and prisoners of wards I, II and III died screaming themselves hoarse.

 

How illogical, he thought. Screaming like that. They should conserve their oxygen. They are taking large, panicked breaths and drawing the toxic gas into their systems with greater rapidity.

 

Mortals could be so foolish.

 

Tired of watching the enforcers die, the Alpha Legionnaire turned back to his operative. Balchus was also watching the monitors, the shotgun in his hands lording over the dozen or so prisoners they had face down on the floor of the Cage.

 

“Two-thirds of the garrison were in these wards, correct?” Durmanhoth asked Balchus, his red eye lenses regarding his operative without emotion. The traitor marine still held the daemon weapon in his gauntleted fist, the tendrils pouring waves of sensation up his arm. “Two hundred, give or take?”

 

“Yes, lord.” Balchus answered, his brow furrowing. “The enforcers in the other wards will now know of the fate of their colleagues. If I may be so bold, could we not have used the prisoners in these wards?”

 

Durmanhoth shrugged. “Nonviolent offenders. I need men with blood on their hands. Still, they are incidental to prisoner #9-8k.” The astartes glanced down at the blinking red light on the console before him. Above the light, Rentin’s looted key had been inserted in a keyhole and turned, enabling Durmanhoth to trigger the sarin gas failsafe. To get to his target and extract him, he would need a solid core of willing men to help him kill the remaining enforcers. He had just evened the odds considerably.

 

“I am moving on the remaining wards.” Durmanhoth told his operative. “Unlock blast doors and the armories within their corresponding wards only as I come to them. Let’s arm the malcontents.”

[Brother Ambroz]

Love it. Keep it up!

[Olis]

Excellent stuff. I like where this is going. :)

[Aqui]

Like a few others, I was expecting nothing more than a Dark Angel seconded to the Death Watch and then Hydra Dominatus!

 

Will be keeping any eye out for more :blush:

[Algorithm]

Chapter 2

 

“Ours is not glory. We shall never be recognized in our father’s sight, because our method of warfare is considered cowardly by those who are quick to judge. Let them judge. Rejoice when you are underestimated, my sons, for ours is not glory. Ours is victory, sudden and unexpected.”

 

-Attributed to Alpharius, Primarch of the XX Legion

 

“Thank the Emperor!” the enforcer said, grinning and gesturing as the blast door opened. “I thought the Cage would never respond!”

 

Durmanhoth held his boltgun at his side as the massive door to Ward V ground opened. He stood immobile as he watched a pair of enforcers cheer as he came into view. One of them, a sergeant by the chevrons on his uniform, touched his voxbead. No doubt he was voxing the others in the ward, telling them the doors were now opened.

 

“Throne! A space marine!” The junior enforcer exclaimed, his eyes wide as he scanned the astartes before him.

 

“The prison complex is under attack from without.” Durmanhoth spoke, his voice augmented by his vox grille. “The enemy is hereto for unknown. I am Brother Jurek, here on behalf of the Inquisition. How many enforcers in this ward?”

 

“Fifty, Lord Jurek.” The sergeant answered. He shot his subordinate a look that said ‘shut up, idiot.’ Even so, he himself look stunned to see an astartes. “Though almost all of them are occupied keeping the inmates in line.”

 

“They are not all in their cells?” Durmanhoth asked.

 

“A large number of them were in the mess hall when they caught wind something was wrong. Several enforcers were talking about what was happening in the other wards, near as I can guess. Those prisoners seized the moment. There’s a riot going on in the mess hall right now, contained but persistent.” The sergeant’s sighed, shaking his head. “Throne, there really was a release of the gas in the other wards? Why? Has the Cage fallen to the enemy?”

 

“Yes.” Durmanhoth answered, bringing his boltgun up. The weapon barked, the muzzle flash exploding almost in time with the sergeant’s chest. The mass reactive round blew out the man’s torso, sending his dead body toppling over backwards. His subordinate startled, but had little time to do much else. The bolter fired again, exploding his head like a melon.

 

The Alpha Legionnaire moved on.

 

******************

 

Prisoner # 9-8k knew something was different. He could tell by the demeanor of the guards that patrolled outside his solitary cell. As dark as it was within, he saw much. They were panicked. Something was happening, and it was something they didn’t understand.

 

He sat still. What else was there to do? He rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the greasy beard that had grown in his unhygienic condition. How long had it been since they let him out for exercise? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t even keep track of time. To hell with them. Whatever was happening to the enforcers out there, he hoped it was bad. He hoped it was the worst riot ever seen at Armillo North, and he hoped enforcers were being killed wholesale.

 

Prisoner #9-8k ran his hands over his forearms. This was his ritual. He could see nothing in his cell, the pitch black enveloping him completely. Rubbing his own arms reminded him that he was still here. He knelt, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, running his hands along his forearms.

 

Just open my cell, he thought. Just give me that one chance, you bastards. Let me eat a shotgun blast to the face, so long as I get to vent my anger in one good blow to the face. Any sensation, even death, was preferable to this constant darkness. Surely even death was not as dark as this.

 

Prisoner #9-8k rubbed his arms, and listened.

 

***********

 

Durmanhoth stood on the substation of Ward V, regarding the half dozen obliterated corpses around him. Smoke drifted in a lazy serpentine dance from the muzzle of his bolter. These men had died like the rest: surprised, attacked by a supposed ally. In awe of a legendary figure in one moment, blown to pieces by bolter fire the next. He knew this couldn’t last. Soon the enemy would know that a murderer in power armor was stalking the jail, shooting enforcers in the back even as he barked words of encouragement.

 

Soon the enforcers might, en masse, become dangerous.

 

Durmanhoth turned his helmeted head to the control console before him. A dizzying array of buttons and dials lay before him, spattered in blood, the blowback from his latest killing spree. He opened a channel to his Balchus.

 

“Hydra Two, One. I’m at the substation. It won’t be long until this place is crawling with enforcers, and I don’t have time to play trial and error. Which switch releases the maglocks on the cells?”

 

“Hydra One, Two. At the top left of the console is three levers, running left to right. Each is the maglock for a cellblock. Throwing all three will release all prisoners in a given ward.” Balchus replied over the link.

 

“Acknowledged.” Durmanhoth answered. Without wasting time, his massive armored hand flipped all three levers over. He could not see the blocks from here, but he knew that all over the ward, prisoners were finding their cells unexpectedly opened. “Open the armory doors Hydra Two.”

 

A moment’s pause. “Done, Hydra One.”

 

Durmanhoth smiled beneath his helm, a second thought occurring to him.

 

“Hydra Two, patch my vox channel into the public address system for this ward. Full volume.”

 

Another pause. “Done, lord. You are live.”

 

“Prisoners of Armillo North,” Durmanhoth spoke, his voice reverberating around him over speakers throughout the ward. “You have suffered long under the yoke of imperial regulation. I have come to lift that burden from your backs. Your doors are opened. Your freedom lies before you. Strike out and kill those who have dominated you. Batter them with your hands, kick them, bite them, choke the life out of them. Those of you intrepid enough to reach the armory will find those doors also opened to you. You are free men, and you, as always, make your own rules. Death to the False Emperor. Ave Chaotica.”

 

Durmanhoth shut down the link. He was taciturn, devoid of emotion as he went about his work. He couldn’t know that throughout the cellblocks of Ward V prisoners had taken up his chant. Men who didn’t know the meaning of the words they spoke, spoke them nonetheless. They were the words of salvation.

 

Ave Chaotica. Ave Chaotica. Ave Chaotica.

 

These words were screamed from vengeful mouths as the wrath of Armillo North’s inmates spilled out.

[Olis]

Keep it up, this is interesting. :)

[Brother Ambroz]

I like how hes keeping the prisoner's identity a secret. Makes it even more mysterious.

[Algorithm]

“They’re making another go for it!” Sergeant Fulbra screamed, directing his squad to stand to. He could hear another group of inmates moving down the corridor, the slap of bare feet somehow audible alongside the staccato of bashing noises. Makeshift clubs, bits of pipe and stolen batons were bashed against the wall as the oncoming herd pushed towards the armory. Fulbra couldn’t see them yet, but he knew this particular attack would be bigger than all the rest.

 

So far his twelve man squad had taken no casualties. Taking up position behind overturned weapon racks and benches, his men had filled the space beyond the armory door with lasbolts and shotgun slugs. The piles of dead inmates scattered about the entryway were testament to that.

 

Blood. Throne there was so much of it. The heaps of enemy dead lay like islands in an ocean of gore. Smoking gunshot wounds and cauterized craters made by lasbolts filled the armory with the smell of cooked flesh. Fulbra and his squad had survived thanks to superior weapons and ideal positioning. Still, they had no idea what was happening at Armillo North.

 

The Cage was not responding, the substation here in Ward V had presumably fallen, as every single prisoner was now loose and on a rampage. Also, there had been the voice. That inhumanly deep, malignant voice that had come over the public address hinted at whoever was responsible for this attack. It had shaken Fulbra and his men, but still they held on.

 

They had near limitless ammo, an inability to surrender, and the God-Emperor on their side.

 

But now, this new mob he could hear pounding down the corridor gave him pause. It sounded like dozens of inmates. They sounded organized, or as organized as a ragtag group of killers and sadists could be.

 

“Check your mags! Las weapons to maximum yield! When you run out, don’t pause to reload! Switch to your sidearm and keep firing!” Fulbra barked aloud. He was no longer using the vox to issue orders. The temptation had been too great to check the command channels, which were jammed solid with morale-damaging chatter.

 

The first of the enemy rounded the corner, three men in prison jumpsuits pushing their way inside the armory doors. Lasguns cracked and flashed, beams of red light lancing the trio down before they took their second step towards the enforcers. More followed quickly behind, moving like an annihilating flood of limbs and crude weapons. They screamed obscenities, their eyes wild.

 

Fulbra’s shotgun banged, pitching the nearest man from his feet at ten yards. He racked the shotgun, turning the barrel and firing again without attempting to aim. The press of enemy bodies was so tight he couldn’t possibly miss. The inmates leapt over the mounds of their own dead, some men slipping in the accumulated blood on the floor to be trampled by their fellows. Fulbra’s ears rang as the shotgun blasted the enemy again and again, starbursts of blood appearing wherever his slugs impacted.

 

Click.

 

Fulbra dropped his spent shotgun, gritting his teeth and drawing a pair of laspistols. He was untrained in the use of an off-hand pistol, but he fired both anyway, daring the enemy to keep coming. Vicker was at his side, his lasgun firing at full auto, his leg posted up on an overturned piece of furniture like a commissar in some propaganda poster.

 

The enemy herd was thinning, their numbers of dead amassing so thick that the floor was becoming an obstacle field. Fulbra continued firing the laspitols in succession, killing and maiming with every shot.

 

He saw the inmate with the shotgun a moment too late.

 

“Shooter!” He called out, turning the pistols on the prisoner. Too late. The prisoner fired his weapon as he bounded forward, the recoil staggering him. Vicker’s chest blew out as the slug hit him, pitching him back over the furniture in a tumble.

 

Fulbra fired again, his first shot catching the shooter in the cheek, spinning the man around. The second shot hit him in the side, and the shooter fell beneath the advancing rush of inmates. He couldn’t risk a glance over his shoulder to see if Vicker was alright. He knew he wouldn’t be. Those slugs go clean through flak armor.

 

Previously, when the attacking waves of inmates sustained this many casualties they lost their will to fight. Now they just kept coming. Anders, a man taking up position twenty feet to Fulbra’s left, made the mistake of punching out at a closing inmate as his shotgun ran dry. The prisoner ducked the blow, and a trio of the enemy grabbed his arm, dragging him out of cover and into their midst. The brutes kicked, punched and stomped Anders until he stopped moving.

 

After a moment, Fulbra understood why they didn’t break.

 

“Not one step backwards!” A voice boomed from behind the surging crowd. Fulbra’s stomach lurched. It was the same powerful voice he had heard over the public address. “At them! There are but a few left!”

 

Fulbra squinted, shooting the two inmates closest to him and trying to focus on the massive shadowy shape lurking at the back of the crowd. Whoever it was, he was big. Inhumanly big.

 

A blow caught Fulbra from an unexpected quarter. His attention had lapsed, and his jaw rang as his head snapped back. He tried to take a step back, regain his footing, but his heel caught the edge of an overturned table. Fulbra tumbled over backward, holding onto his laspistols as tightly as he could.

 

Prisoners stampeded over him, forcing the hole in the line of enforcers wider. Fulbra heard curses and felt the angry kick of bare feet all over his body. The world became a confused tumble of yelling, white jumpsuits, dirty, snarling faces and points of pain. He fired off only two more shots of his pistols before the charge on the first one went dry, his second one being kicked from his hand. Fulbra curled into a ball and screamed.

 

He didn’t feel the slab of rockcrete that smashed his head in, killing him.

 

**************************************

 

Durmanhoth watched as the inmates whooped and cheered, snatching stockpiled lascarbines, shotguns and sidearms from those weapon racks that were still standing at the back of the armory. Some of the prisoners were cheering at him, slapping his shoulder pauldrons, still fraudulently painted with the livery of the Deathwatch, and the Dark Angels.

 

He himself felt nothing.

 

It was the sword’s fault. He touched the daemon weapon at his hip without realizing it as he watched the looters take their due. Heartrender. That was the name of the accursed weapon, and it was one of the hundreds of names of the entity bound within. She sang to him, demanding his attention like a petulant granddaughter. When he was not wielding her, he felt absolutely nothing. No thrill, no burst of adrenaline, no emotion. If Durmanhoth was not killing with Heartrender, the kills, and the victory, meant nothing to him.

 

The sword had been gifted to the Alpha Legionnaire two standard years prior by one of the most powerful warlords in the Word Bearers Legion. Erebus, that inscrutable bastard, had been the shadowy client in a mission that had taken him across the length of the Maelstrom, and made him a mortal enemy of the Red Corsairs. Heartrender had been given to him as thanks for completion of the mission, along with a captured Imperial frigate and it’s rebel crew.

 

Still, the sword had been as much a curse as a boon. Bound with the essence of a daemon of the pleasure god, it made Durmanhoth faster, more agile, and worked to distract his enemies during close quarters engagements. It could enchant men, make them see and hear things that were not there. It’s siren song made Durmanhoth, an already accomplished swordsman, exponentially more deadly.

 

It also compromised his values.

 

As a veteran of the Long War, Durmanhoth was no stranger to the predations of the warp. During the retreat from Terra, he had been forced to understand and even embrace the darker corners of Horus’s rebellion. Chaos was a primal force, but Durmanhoth was not a slave to it. He believed it was a weapon to be mastered, and used to increase the chances of the success of any given operation. However, he had always endeavored to walk that path carefully. He had no desire to mutate uncontrollably like Erebus’s lackeys. He accepted Heartrender as a symbol of man’s embrace of Chaos, and yet it’s complete mastery of it.

 

Heartrender, however, had other ideas. As he used it, the daemon slowly worked her magic over him. It honed in on his immense pride in a well laid plan, and denied him that pleasure so long as she remained in her scabbard. Durmanhoth would be lying if he claimed he didn’t miss the sensations of war, victory, and killing. But he knew to expose himself to the sword too much was to lose himself to it, much like some of the blathering, insane denizens of the Eye of Terror.

 

Spite. Spite was his greatest weapon.

 

“I control you. This is all in my control.” He whispered to Heartrender, removing his hand from the sword.

[Olis]

Hmm, some character exposition. Seems like our antagonist/protagonist has his own issues. ;)

[Lysimachus]

Really excellent stuff, looking forward to finding out what he's actually after!

[Brother Ambroz]

Good character development. I echo Strike Captain Lysimachus' statement. Keep it coming!

[Kol Saresk]

Sweet!

[Algorithm]

Chapter 3

 

"You and I, we may look the same,

But we are very far apart.

There's bullet holes where my compassion used to be,

And there is violence in my heart.

Into fire you can send us,

From the fire we return.

You can label us a consequence,

Of how much you have to learn."

 

Balchus stood pacing in front of the dizzying array of security monitors in the Cage, his shotgun cocked across his shoulder. His eyes roamed the high resolution screens, seeing scenes of death and carnage everywhere he looked. In most wards, prisoners and guards lay dead from the gas released by Durmanhoth, but in others his master was coordinating the otherwise aimless prisoners towards the armories. Muzzle flashes were now added the to panoply of sights unfolding on the screens, as pockets of outnumbered enforcers were cut off and systematically eliminated. Balchus could now see that his master was nearly upon the isolation ward, and the location of prisoner #9-8k.

 

He didn't know the prisoner's identity, or how he fit into the master's plans. He didn't even know the master's long term plan, but none of that mattered to him. In his time to the service of the Alpha Legion, he had learned that information was compartmentalized and jealously guarded. It was the only way the the Legion could operate for so long without support, embedded deep in Imperial space.

 

Balchus chewed his lip, and remembered with contempt his days before Durmanhoth had found him - a time when he in fact had been hunting Durmanhoth as part of Inquisitor Depril's task force. It bothered him to think on those days, those days when he had been willingly blinded by Imperial dogma, raised to be an intelligence agent for an Emperor that he would never see, and never be recognized by. Balchus had been the inquisitor's chief field agent, and over the course of ten years he had helped the inquisitor piece together the details of dozens of seemingly unrelated acts of terrorism and sabotage throughout the Faustus sector. The inquisitor had determined, through the work done by Balchus and his teams, that these acts had all been perpetrated by an individual designated by the Ordo Hereticus as Subject Forty-One. Only Balchus, and the upper echelons of Inquisitor Depril's retinue were privy to the knowledge that Subject Forty-One was in fact a member of the Ex Communicate Traitoris XX Legion, the Alpha Legion. The Ordo had been trying to exterminate the Alpha Legion for centuries, and officially, the Inquisition had declared them to be extinct. Unofficially, the Ordo Hereticus had within it's ranks a secret faction dedicated to wiping out the remaining Alpha Legionnaires operating throughout the galaxy. Inquisitor Depril was part of this faction.

 

Balchus had come to meet Durmanhoth during the investigation of a chemical weapons plant explosion thought to be carried out, or organized, by Subject Forty-One. Balchus had infiltrated one of Durmanhoth's cells after some lengthy field work, and when his cover was blown he had been abducted by the cell members and taken to Durmanhoth, rather than simply killed. He remembered that day, when the giant in blue-green armor had regarded him in the depths of a disused sewer.

 

"Tell me why you hunt me." he had simply stated.

 

"Because you are a traitor to the Imperium." Balchus had defiantly replied, on his knees with his wrists bound.

 

"True, but that is why the Imperium hunts me. Why do you?" His voice was quizzical, genuine. There was no mockery.

 

"It is my duty." He had answered.

 

"Did you join the Inquisition by choice, or were you drafted for some particular skill?" The giant asked again, his dark eyes gleaming through the grit on his face. "I only ask because if I decide that you should die, you will die right here, on your knees in a filthy sewer. You will not be remembered. I imagine that, like most, you were given little choice in your assignment to the Inquisition. You hunt me because you are told to, and here I am. Had you managed to somehow kill me, your contribution to your cause would go unnoticed, and only your master would reap the reward."

 

"Are you trying to sway me?" Balchus had spat.

 

"I am trying to show you the collar around your neck. Once you see it, your anger will sway you."

 

Balchus blinked at the memory. Durmanhoth had been right. Over a course of weeks he had been kept as a prisoner in those sewers, watched over by a handful of human cell members. From time to time the Alpha Legionnaire would engage him in conversation, and though he had tried to resist it, Balchus slowly felt the stirrings of resentment building in him. Durmanhoth had indeed shown him the truth. He had been wearing a collar.

 

He knew in his heart he had only been spared because he was useful to his new master. A man who had been hunting him would be a great asset to Durmanhoth to eluding the Imperium, and could give valuable insight into the workings of the Inquisition. None of that mattered, because for everything Durmanhoth was, he was honest. He didn't ask Balchus to betray the Imperium out of any duty to the Alpha Legion, or Chaos, or anything else. He simply gave Balchus the chance to vent his anger, and to turn his skills and training on the ungrateful masters who had made him.

 

Balchus knew that Durmanhoth had dozens of other cells and operatives at work throughout the Faustus sector. Some of them disrupted industry, others stole technology, while still others infiltrated positions of power and trust in the Imperium. How the Alpha Legionnaire coordinated it all was unknown to Balchus, but it was masterful. It was what the Alpha Legion did best. Whatever Durmanhoth's long term goal was, for whatever reason he needed Prisoner #9-8k, it was bound to be important.

 

************

 

Prisoner #9-8k startled as the metal of his solitary cell door squealed as it was pulled from the other side against the lock with incredible force. It was pulled again, and then once more. The sound of tortured steel cut above even the roar of the rampaging prisoners that had poured into the hallways of his normally silent ward. And then, the door fell away.

He squinted as light flooded into his cell. He blinked, crouching and shielding his eyes as he tried to focus on the one who had, impossibly, torn the door from it's hinges.

The figure's silhouette was incredibly large, dwarfing the tide of bodies that pushed and shoved past behind him. He could make out the bulk of powered armor, and as his eyes adjusted he could see the glow of red eye lenses regarding him impassively.

Was that - a space marine?

A voice boomed from the helmet, amplified above the roar of gunshots and shouting prisoners.

"Prisoner #9-8k, Kylone Vex." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes." He said anyway, not having heard his name in years.

"I am Alpharius. I have come to take the collar from around your neck."

[Aqui]

I do like this. I've never been much of an AL fan, even when "Legion" came out, but the focus on one Legionnaire in this story is far more compelling and more to the point, fitting for this Traitor Legion ;)

[Dosjetka]

I have really enjoyed reading this story so far. Thank you for sharing and I await the next update eagerly :D

 

Ludovic

[Brother Ambroz]

Got chills reading why the operative joined the Alpha Legion. Keep it coming!!

[Olis]

Very good. Interesting exposition on Balchus.

[Algorithm]

Inquisitor Depril pushed his spectacles back atop his nose, squinting through the dim lighting of the now-scoured Armillo North facility. Blood stains were everywhere, along the walls and dappled across the concrete floors, testament to the Hell the prison facility had been subjected to. It had been brutally attacked weeks ago, and since that time every prisoner that had been incarcerated there had been shot. It had taken a half company of PDF almost two days to fully dislodge the inmates and secure the location. The soldiers had been unable to ascertain the cause of the catastrophic revolt that had left almost the entire initial enforcer garrison dead.

 

The Ordo Hereticus had arrived weeks later.

 

Inquisitor Depril was an exceptionally old man, his wiry frame unarmored and unarmed, save for the antique laspistol at his belt. He was not a man who believed in getting personally involved with the enemy. He was strategic, but he was not tactical. A long, leather greatcoat covered a regal-looking collared tunic and matching breeches. His Inquistorial rosette was worn proudly around his neck.

 

Although the Inquisitor himself did not present an abject threat, his retinue more than made up for his own simple attire. Walking at his side as he moved through the now-defunct prison complex was Sister Autoria, an Adepta Sororitas of the Order of the Hallowed Earth. Her dark grey power armor hissed with power as she moved, her hair blonde and close-cropped.

 

At the Inquisitor's other side strode Marius Wrent, his arms as thick as layered cables. Wrent was a blood money mercenary, now seconded to the Inquisition. A dizzying array of knives and sidearms adorned his belt, a long-las slung across his back. He wore carapace armor across the chest, his arms bare from the shoulder down, revealing an impressive catalogue of old burns and scars.

 

Finally, walking a respectful distance behind was Solomon, the taciturn, brooding Callidus assassin. The form Solomon took at this moment was of that of a short Administratum clerk, the pudgy arms of his assumed form belying the true deadly nature that lurked beneath.

 

At last, Depril arrived the Armillo North's chow hall, located in what had been Ward III. In the days since, he had refitted the place as an interrogation room. It's wide space was now almost competely devoid of furniture, save a single long cafeteria table still positioned in the center of the room. Straps hung at opposite ends of the table. Hanging over it was the imposing figure of a deactivated torture servitor, it's shoulder's hunched and it's mouth slack.

 

At one side of the table were a pair of chairs, closely situated and facing one another. In one chair a woman sat, blindfolded and sobbing, but otherwise unbound. A helmeted PDF trooper stood motionless at her side, his lasgun held at ease. She wore a dirty, blood-stained pair of enforcer fatigues, her hair unkempt and wild. Her head darted from his to side as she heard the footsteps of the inquisitor and his entourage enter,

 

Without a word, Inquisitor Depril's retinue spread out, standing at various points along the walls. Depril himself walked slowly towards the pair of chairs, and nodded to the PDF trooper.

 

"You may leave for now." He said. Without a word, the trooper saluted and left the improvised interrogation room through a set of wide double doors in the back.

 

Inquisitor Depril sat in the chair opposite the crying woman, leaning slightly forward and addressing her politely.

 

"You may take that off, now."

 

Hands shaking, her breathing quick and panicked, the woman reacted. Her hands slowly moved up and slid the bllindfold away, as though expecting to be punished at any moment for removing it. The inquisitor did nothing, only smiling at her as her squinting eyes came into view.

 

"Anja Prewiit," Sister Autoria announced, consulting a dataslate in her gauntleted hands.

 

"That's you, isn't it my dear?" Depril asked, his voice like a kindly grandfather.

 

"Yes." She rasped, her eyes moving to the members of the retinue along the walls.

 

"Look at me, please." Depril said, smiling slightly again. Her eyes returned to his. "Thank you. I am Inquisitor Depril, and I want to have a nice conversation. Do you want to have a nice conversation?"

 

"Yes." Anja answered, her voice quavering.

 

"Good. Because if the conversation turns ugly, it will take place over there." Depril pointed deliberately at the cafeteria table, and the servitor hunched over it. "And for it to be a nice conversation, there must be truth between us. Will you tell me the truth?"

 

"Yes." Anja answered.

 

"Good. What happened here?"

 

"I - I'm not exactly sure. It happened so fast! There was an attack-"

 

"I'm sorry," Depril interrupted, adjusting his spectacles and smiling apologetically. "I should have been more specific. I know this place was attacked. I want you to tell me who did it."

 

"He -" Anja started, and then wrinkled her face. "He was big. My lord, he looked to be an astartes! He looked like the mosaics in the basillicas"

 

"Go on." Depril nodded, seeming nonplussed.

 

"How can that be? An astartes attacking the Emperor's servants?"

 

"I should add," Depril interjected, "that critical thought and questions will also turn this conversation into a bad one. Answer only, please. How did his armor appear?"

 

"It was black, he had a winged sword on one shoulder pad," Anja hesitated. "The symbol of the Inquisition of the other."

 

"An imposter, my dear, not one of us. Was he alone?"

 

"No. He had an accomplice, someone on the inside, an enforcer. Weylan, but I don't know if that's his real name."

 

"And Weylan turned on you and aided this imposter?"

 

"Yes."

 

The inquisitor nodded, gesturing for Anja to keep talking.

 

"They talked about freeing a prisoner, that seemed to be why they were here."

 

Depril nodded again. "I am aware of this part of the story." He had interviewed the other three survivors. "Did he say anything else, anything unusual?"

 

Anja scrunched up her face. "Something in high gothic. The imposter, he said it to Weylan. Hydra Dominatus"

 

The Inquisitor nodded, as though this confirmed some secret suspicion he had. "And why were you spared, my dear? How did you survive?"

 

Anja hesitated. "He, that is the astartes, wanted me to tell whoever found us that they were too slow. Too slow as always."

 

The inquisitor's face darkened a moment, but resumed it's placid calm quickly. He gave a brief nod to Marius Wrent, who left his spot at the wall and slowly moved around behind Anja.

 

"Thank you my dear. Fix your eyes upon mine, please." The inquisitor said, smiling and rubbing a hand along the woman's cheek. She looked him in the eye gratefully. "You have been through a lot. Common Imperial citizens cannot be forced to live with the knowledge that even the great astartes can fall. I am sorry to end things this way."

 

Wrent's hands clamped down on Anja's throat from behind, his long fingers squeezing with incredible force. Anja's eyes bulged, and she began kicking and struggling. Inquisitor Depril stood without giving her a backward glance, turning to the other members of his retinue.

 

"The same story with each survivor, we're going to have to look elsewhere to find our prey." He said, raising his voice to be heard above Anja's spluttering and struggles. "We are leaving."

[Dosjetka]

The moment where Anja gets killed was anticipated, but I was a bit surprised nonetheless. I'm quite curious to know where this now leads :D

 

Ludovic

[Lysimachus]

Good stuff.

 

The only thing that feels a little off in the last bit is the way Wrent kills the girl. Not that he kills her at all, that was obviously going to happen. But it seems like the Inquisitor is acting in as kindly and merciful a way as is possible (given the circumstances) and the method doesn't really fit with that. Being choked isn't exactly quick, you'd automatically panic, struggle and fight; not a kind way to kill someone. I'd be inclined to have made it either a bullet or knife or snapped neck or something, very quick and fairly painless.

 

Nevertheless, still really enjoying this, looking forward to more.

[Darkchild130]

this is really very good. Are you planning to submit anything to the BL this year?

 

Darkchild