Footsteps of the Father

[Welcheren]

A short story that might become part of a longer tale. Would love to know what you think:

 

 

 

Inquisitor Bravid allowed himself to voice his introspections aloud. He did so now for he was in trustworthy company, and would be for no more than a moment.

“Such weakness. Such fragility.” Slowly, deliberately, he sank his sword into the chest of the xeno at his feet. Its black eyes locked with his own. Bravid saw his face reflected there. The xeno was an emaciated thing. It was soft, short and one of only five they had encountered so far on the space station. “Here they are, caught between mighty forces: caught in a clash they have no hope of surviving". He ripped his sword back with an elegant flourish. "That is why no one will ever know of them. And yet,” he looked up to the slaughter-choked tunnels that snaked away from this atrium in the space station’s underbelly. “And yet, humanity stood so precipitously close to the same fate. When I look at civilian masses, even the ranks of Guardsmen, most of us are still as fragile. Our history would have been the same as this creature’s.”

The Throne Agent behind him, Divar, knew the Inquisitor well enough to understand what was expected, “But?”

“But great is the wisdom of the Emperor, and great is the boon of his sons.” In the tunnels beyond the atrium, giants in ceramite stalked, bearing the tools of death, accompanied by the cacophony of destruction. Bravid knelt down to look into the xeno's dead face. Divar had noticed the sardonic edge to the Inquisitor’s voice. The statement had been meant as a platitude, not a declamation of faith.

Divar knew what was expected. “And yet?”

“I cannot trust these Astartes.”

“They have served across three worlds, through an operation that has required three pronouncements of Exterminatus.”

Bravid rose to his full height again, and sheathed his sword slowly as if it were made of glass, “Our only record of them is their founding.”

“The 21^st,” Divar affirmed.

“Yes, and their name: Sons of the 21^st. Quite Brazen.”

I suspect they choose it to celebrate what they have. Beyond a founding they have nothing, no Primarch, no home world.

Divar did not think these thoughts to contradict the Inquisitor; only to test his own analytic aptitude.

Bravid continued, “Nothing else. No mention of any subsequent actions. None. Nothing on the origins of their gene-seed… or any mention of mutation.”

Ah. “Not all chapters of that founding have exhibited symptoms of physical mutation.”

“No, but how many of the Sons have you or I seen without the mask of a face-plate? More interestingly, how fortunate it is that we encountered them at all during such a moment of crisis? How serendipitous. Without them we would be dogs without teeth.”

Divar knew enough to avoid making any mention of the Emperor’s will. Instead: “I have sent detailed reports of every step in our operations to your agents on Cypro, and continue to request any data on this chapter.”

“Good.” Bravid glanced at the alien corpse by his feet. It looked almost serene in death; much better than the frightened little thing caught in a battle between Dark Eldar pirates and Chaos cultists, with the sudden addition of Space Marines.

Bradiv said: “If the Astartes are the power that holds extinction at bay, we are its leash. We much act accordingly.”

“Inquisitor,” a second agent appeared to their right. “You will wish to see this.”

 

 

Sergeant Lymir shook blood from his chainblade and crunched his boot through the slender chest of the Dark Eldar Kabalite warrior. His boot almost covered the entire chest, but Lymir could still detect the sigil on the creature’s shoulders. Then, looking up quickly at the three tunnel entrances ahead, where figures moved deftly from cover to cover, his auto-senses captured and magnified a number of other sigils.

“The xenos remain confident. Squads from different Kabals retain cohesion.”  

Expertly positioned snipers, armed with heat lances, hampered the pursuing tactical squads, buying precious seconds for the ordered retreat of their brothers and sisters. The enemy relinquished ground with minimal contest.

And Lymir perceived that something other than the holy pressure of bolter and meltagun was causing the Dark Eldar withdrawal. 

“They are leading us. Aye, they are baiting us into a trap; into a prepared a kill zone,” Lymir observed as the massive figure behind him drew closer.

“Correct.” Remek, stood behind him clad in the blue plate of the Librarius. Remek spoke with a voice produced by nothing more arcane than normal vocal cords. Yet his voice had a quality both solid and ethereal that reduced normal humans to shivering. Of all the Sons in the immediately area, Remek alone went without a helm. His bare head seemed disproportionately small between the arcs of his pauldrons and the curve of his crystal-lined hood. “My prognostication is vindicated. Initiate the procedure Brother Lymir.”

Lymir nodded and activated his squad vox, “Recun, Haruc, do your duty.”

Two marines withdrew from the firing line without a word, separated and disappeared down two narrow tunnels, one to the left, another to the right.

“Grenades!” Lymir ordered and a volley of frag explosives hastened the Dark Eldar retreat. “We move into the path the enemy has prepared for us.” Several other squads, placed under Lymir’s command in this section of the space station, voxed their compliance.

 

 

The station was vast. Close to four companies were operating simultaneously in different locations. The marines called the floating edifice a space station for ease of communication. However, according to Techmarine reports it was an ancient relic from the era of the Crusade. Its original purpose was a matter of conjecture - impossible without further study. The Dark Eldar had been lured here by the promise of just over two million slaves for their heinous rites. At least three Kabals had contributed forces. They had inserted their warriors with surgical precision and tactical caution. For the slaves in question were cultists of She Who Thirsts. Once the conflict had spread across most of the station, the Sons of the 21^st and their Inquisitorial friends deemed that the xenos had become too thoroughly engaged to escape - as was their predilection when confronted by a superior force. Suddenly, as Lymir’s squad pushed further down one of the tunnels, Remek halted. For a moment his eyes closed and he stood still and silent as a statue. Then, without a smile or any readable expression: “Our colleagues become curious. I must see to them.”

 

 

Bravid and Divar moved quickly behind the second agent down a narrow metal tunnel lined with tubes. “We have seen much evidence of the Sons’ battle prowess, but there is something else at work here.”

They reached a door, and beyond it was a balcony overlooking a mustering hall, a vast space that could have held five thousand men in parade ground formation. And it did: approximately five thousand corpses lay strewn together under harsh white light from the high ceiling.

“All cultists,” the agent confirmed, “A squad of Sons passed through here just over an hour ago.” None of the corpses were marred by a single wound from bolt or blade.

“How many Sons are on our ship,” Bravid enquired, raising a tiny mag-lens to his eye to inspect the corpses from a distance.

“Twenty,” Divar replied.

“Slip a medicae team in here without them noticing. I want…” Bravid heeded the cold creeping up his neck and reached for a las-pistol. But he was already too late. In his peripheral vision he saw a ceramite fist fold around his second agent’s neck and crush it. Turning on his heel, his vision was filled with a midnight-blue plastron, before a massive hand clasped his bare scalp, almost gently. Epistolary Remek.

Bravid could not see what was happening to Divar until Remek said, “Don’t move Agent… I don’t want you to die just yet. You have another report to send”. The grip on Bravid’s head intensified and his limbs became heavy as lead. “Now Inquisitor, let us assess the rigour of your mental wards.”

“Traitors,” Bravid breathed through gritted teeth.

“A matter of perspective,” the Epistolary replied with eerie equanimity, “One that you do not have the wit to comprehend.”

 

 

Sergeant Lymir relished the slaughter. The xenos had thought to lure his men into another large atrium, flanked by two mustering halls where thousands of cultists had been trapped, planning to open the doors and unleash the hordes of the damned upon the Astartes, before making their escape. The Dark Eldar Succubus who commanded this section of the force had watched with glee, like a child reading a colourful story, as the mon-keighs stepped brazenly into the open space where they would be killed. She ignored the mounting casualties among her own warriors as a necessary price for victory. But then, whil the vast blast doors of the mustering halls slid open, there was nothing: no howls of rage, no mad barrage of las-fire, no violent surge, only the silence of a sepulchre.

Somehow, the mon-keighs had outdone her. Then it struck her that this was only possible if they had been armed with detailed knowledge of the space station’s schematics. Suddenly, she observed - in the movements of each opposing squad - the advantage of a battle planned in advance. She noticed the cruel hooks protruding from the marines’ blood-smeared power armour. Perhaps her head would adorn one of them soon.

And while her enemies pushed mercilessly deeper into her hopelessly outmanoeuvred forces, the Succubus felt a psychic presence reveal itself, and knew that this mind belonged to same creature who had first contracted her services as a mercenary months ago, and who had then alerted her to this source of slaves.

“I am not done yet,” she whispered, “Deploy the Wracks”.

 

The mind-wiped form of Inquisitor Bravid slumped to its knees before the ceramite giant, “Divar, you will report that paranoia has cracked the Inquisitor’s mind. You will cite his declaration of Exterminatus on three Imperial worlds as evidence. And you will report that he has departed your company. His whereabouts are unknown”.

The Agent stood as if frozen in place, sweat beaded on his shaven head and his lips were clamped together. Suddenly a flash of light erupted in the mustering hall below the balcony, about four-hundred metres away, followed by an explosion that tore a hole in the wall. A group of cultists pointed guns past the ragged edges and cautiously crept over the carpet of corpses.

Remek causally reached for a vial inside a compartment in his belt. It was clear glass and held a small white crystal. He looked up at the Agent and almost smiled, “Would you like to know what this is? It’s a distilled and crystallised form of this.” The Epistolary worked his cheeks, leaned forward and spat something to the floor below. “A gift from the Genetors of our founding.” Then he removed the crystal from its vial and dropped it, “Now we leave. You would not survive its effects any longer than they. Come Divar, we go to Cypro. I have reason to believe that there are records concerning our Primarch hidden there, and I mean to study them”.  

 

 

 

 

 

[Welcheren]

Approximately two years later, in the Andar-Sar system, the Forge Worlds Andar Primus and Secundus are in revolt. The Libators First and Second Companies, co-operating with the Black Dragons Fourth Company, have been successfully petitioned to end the uprising. Simultaneously, the objective of securing the moon Cypro, orbiting the Death World Sar, is given to two squads of the Libators Fifth and two squads of the Black Dragons Fourth. Although the moon is considered of minor importance, emissaries of the Departemento Munitorum persuade the two Astartes chapters to seize it immediately, in order to protect administrative archives from destruction.

 

 

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

 

 

It should have been the last thing they saw.   

 

 

The artillery piece was monstrous in size, yet elegant in design. Codenamed Howler by Imperial Guard recon teams, it sat on a massive round metal base with a 360 degree rotation, and a single barrel pointing like a finger at the sky. She was adorned with golden rings, lovingly engraved with Imperial devotions.

 

These inscriptions were now a source of irony, bearing in mind the rebel hands setting her elevation. Presently Howler’s arch was poised to demolish the bridges that would, at any moment, shudder under the heavy tramp of two Imperial armoured brigades. In contrast with her elegant barrel and engravings, her operators wore bulky and dull-coloured flak-armour; their faces were masked by re-breathers to keep out the dust and smoke of Howler’s massive ordinance. 

 

She sat on a bed of golden sand, deep inside an arena that sunk two-hundred meters into the ground. Steep steps of yellow marble led to the surface. In days past, the edifice might have been witness to barbarous rites, but – as was the case with all buildings on the moon Cypro – it had been forced to serve the administrative needs of the Departemento Munitorum. Great doors on every level of the stairs, that might once have admitted audiences or victims of sacrifice, now led to archival vaults.

 

Abruptly the sky screamed. Four black shapes appeared against the rust-red clouds. Sergeant Harator and the four Dragon Claws of his combat squad tore down towards their objective. With a thought, he cut out the fuel and sailed down on the wings of momentum and gravity. Then with quick bursts of promethium, he jinked this way and that fouling the aim of the gun-operators below. His brothers did likewise, following an unpredictable pattern etched on their minds by rigorous training, and beyond the reaction capabilities of the rebels below. While he weaved between the las-beams, Harator’s bolter barked. At the same time, his gen-hanced mind calculated the most convenient avenues of attack and the greatest sources of risk. Within seconds the data was relayed to his brothers, who affirmed with equal speed their understanding of the assault pattern. 

 

Then there was a jarring shock that would have broken even an Astartes’ legs if not for his armour, as he struck Howler’s metal base. Bone-blades erupted through special slits in his vambrace:

“Fire and bone!”

In moments, Howler’s elegant metal casings were splashed with gore. But as Sergeant Harator called out for the status of his combat squad, his Lyman’s ear detected the thud of air-tight chambers opening, the rolling of well-oiled hinges, the scrape of grinding sand. The doors. Before his eyes confirmed it, Harator knew that twenty doors had opened on three levels of the arena above them.

“A semi-circle… a kill zone,” Brother Lancor ascertained.

Harator saw twenty lascannons peering through the doors, already aimed at Howler’s feet – sufficient firepower to slay him and his squad four times over. It should have been the last thing they saw.

But his eyes detected something else as well. The order to fly, the order his Dragons were waiting for, did not come.

“The atmosphere Brothers.”

“Is toxic,” Lancor concurred.

“Look.”

The rebel gunners lay dead by their cannons.

“Someone approaches… and cares not to hide their steps… clad

in ceramite,” Lancor reported.

Looking up at the stairs to the north, a man, an Astartes, resplendent in a mixture of gold and midnight blue armour appeared and descended. His left hand carried a cage. Bolters lifted. 

“Hail Brothers,” said a voice both solid and ethereal, “in the name of the Emperor and the Primarchs.”

“Identify yourself, Brother” Harator demanded, opting for cautions diplomacy, his bone-blade still naked. “By your plate, I know you as a Librarian. But I do not recognise your heraldry.”

“For duty and honour, I bring you the man who instigated the revolt you have come to quell.” Inside an uncomfortably small iron cage, hunched a gaunt man in black. “This is Inquisitor Bravid. Unfortunately madness has claimed him. I am Epistolary Remek, of the Chain Breakers chapter – sons of the

21^st Founding.” Harator sensed that the Epistolary was gambling on their common founding to create a sense of camaraderie. His suspicion deepened. He nearly opened a private vox to Lancor, his second in the combat squad, but opted not to underestimate the Librarian’s psychic prowess.

“My brothers and I,” Remek continued, “happened upon a chain of loyal Imperial worlds condemned to Exterminatus by this man. By the will of the Emperor we successfully tracked the renegade, and boarded his ship with the aid of a man called Divar – a loyal servant who had observed the fall of his

master, and deactivated the ship’s void shields upon our approach. Divar paid for his courage with his life, but a record of these events was sent to a Throne Agent, posing as a Departemento Munitorum clerk on Cypro. The agent in question is approaching your comrades among the Libators with this record even as we speak.”

Pushing aside his emotions for later analysis, Sergeant Harator addressed the most pressing concern, “Why do you come to us in such clandestine fashion Brother. We have not detected your ships. You can understand why this troubles me”.

“The answer, my Brothers, is that I have ulterior motives, foremost among which is my desire to conceal myself from the Inquisitors that traveled here with you.”

Harator hid his surprise at this knowledge, “Elaborate”.

“Like your own, our Chapter is subject to censure and scrutiny – regardless of our service.”

Again, Harator knew that the Epistolary was playing for camaraderie.

 “I took a risk in coming here. I chose it so, in order to give you something that the Inquisition

would rather we not possess.”

“Continue.”

Reaching for a plastek case on his thigh, Remek retrieved a slab of stone, and handed it to one of Harator’s marines. At a nod from his sergeant, the marine passed the slab to him. It was nothing remarkable: a stone engraving of the Emperor, astride clouds of thunder. “There was a man on ancient Terra, a spy of extraordinary creativity. Posing as a biologist, he drew data-sketches of the creatures he studied. I believe they were called buttre-flies. Yet, hidden within these images, the spy coded vital

information on his enemies. That skill has not disappeared. Encoded within that image is the truth of our mutual Primarch. Our gene-father is not Vulkan, as you may have suspected.”

Harator prayed that his demeanour did not betray the beating of his hearts.

“Take it to your Librarians,” Remek continued, and despite all the doubt churning in his mind, Harator discovered that he wanted to listen. “They have the intelligence to decode it. Take it to them, and see how far the Inquisition has gone to keep the truth from us. We, all of us here, are sons of the Primarch of the II Legion.” The Epistolary retrieved a glass vial from his belt, spat into it, and placed it on the sand. “Your Apothecaries might be interested in that. It will corroborate my claims of our genetic brotherhood… I hope that we shall speak again soon brothers.”

A near-blinding flash of light stabbed the arena, teleporting the Epistolary to Emperor-knows where.

 

 

 

 

 

[deathspectersgt7]

                                                                                                  I Like !!!!

[Welcheren]

Thanks DS.

I tried to cut down on lengthy descriptions and to drive the plot through dialogue since I think that's one of the areas that I can really stand to improve in.

I also tried to leave the ending open so that readers can decide for themselves what they believe was truthful and what was lies.

[Argent aquila]

absolutely great!

 

cannot wait to see how the story evolves. consider it followed with vigor!

[Welcheren]

Thanks. Any critique welcome.

[Green Knight]

The basic story is an interesting one. I suggest using more time to build the inquisitor and his people - will make the betrayal all the more compelling for the reader.

 

 

Also, the formatting is a bit awkward in places.

[Welcheren]

Yes, I try to set the formatting carefully and then it wacks out when I copy it to the box. Even after combing through it again and again, some issues remain. Sometimes when I save changes, I see some alterations revert to previous errors.

Thanks so much for the comments. I opted against fleshing out the Inquisitor for three reasons:

1) I wanted this to be a very short story, but your point stands in terms of drawing the reader in;

2) the Inquisitor was simply a means to an end; I don't necessarily want readers to associate with him, but to get a sense of the Sons of the 21st/Chain Breakers. All this was intended to set the scene against which the Black Dragons are exposed to either a hard truth or complete lie. Initially I intended for all of this to be a longer story, during which to set the Black Dragon characters and combine them with the Libators (who I am currently developing), but then I decided to wrap it into a concise little narrative to test the basic idea. I want to know how people about a canon chapter have their origins questioned in this way (there are pitfalls to lumping in one of the unknown Primarchs);

3) I really need to sharpen my dialogue-writing aptitude and wanted to see if I could drive a plot primarily through dialogue.

I hope to add a bit concerning the Libators to the above. Perhaps at some point I will do a prequel about the Inquisitor.

Thanks for your constructive comments. It's once of the most commendable attributes of the B&C members.

[Captain Juan Juarez]

 

Sometimes when I save changes, I see some alterations revert to previous errors.

 

Haven't read through, yet!, but the above is a common "I'm going to put through this through the window" fault with IE that has been pointed out to me/I have discovered.

[fox2013]

Love the idea. The hesitation in the dragon's mind is something i like to see in these things

[Welcheren]

Thanks Fox.

 

Yes, it does not make sense to me that gen-hanced Astartes would be easy to convince.