Prime Forces

[Wargamer]

A story snippet exploring what might happen if / when Primaris Marines are added to my Chapter (ie: if I cave in and buy some of the minis).

 

"Whom do you serve?" was not the question Sergeant Tiberius had expected as they came to a halt before their Chapter Master.

"We serve you, my Lord." Tiberius replied, "The Chapter; the Emperor; the Imperium."

"In that order?" Master Dyus asked. He was shorter than Tiberius and his men, all the Supernovas were. The Primaris stood head and shoulders above ordinary Marines.

Tiberius cocked his head, "do you doubt our loyalty, Lord?"

"Not at all. I am convinced you are loyal unto death. Where your loyalty lies, I have not yet decided. Still, your orders state you are now a part of my Chapter, and who am I to argue with orders issued by a man ten millennia dead?"

The Primaris Marines stirred. Dyus saw the shock, no, the contempt ripple through them. "The Primarch lives," Tiberius insisted.

"So I'm told," Dyus replied in a dismissive tone. "You will be assigned to the Fifth for the time being. Dismissed."

 

Xeran and Cyda, Captains of the Fourth and Fifth respectively, were watching the aspirants train. It was a popular past-time for members of the Chapter in what little down-time they had, although the strict rules about not getting involved resulted in a lot of chewed knuckles and averted gazes. The problem with a Chapter that bred independent, self-reliant soldiers was every single one of them though they could train the next generation better than the appointed instructors. Most Supernovans barely lasted half an hour before they had to retreat to their own training halls and hit someone to relieve the tension.

"So just how bad is it?" Xeran asked the younger Captain.

Cyda met his gaze, which was preferable to the embarrassing displays on the training mats. "On paper we have five squads, but almost half our force are Novitae who've never seen battle. The rest are hardened, even the newly mantled, but so many raw bodies is a liability. I need skilled troops."

Xeran nodded sympathetically. Years back, he'd lost almost all his Company in a pointless war. The pain of that had never dulled. "I've restructured my forces. I have six squads ready and three half-blooded. I could spare you one if needs be. Vargna is willing; eight Marines two Novitae, and Vargna passed up membership of the First, twice. He'll whip your children into shape."

Cyda allowed herself a smirk. "Is this your way of keeping tabs on an inexperienced officer?"

"Oh no, not at all. To be honest, you remind me of myself; when Master Ximo promoted me I was convinced he'd made the wrong choice. I tried to tell him there were other, better men to lead the Company. But I've come to realise that the qualities that make a good sergeant do not always make a good captain. A little self doubt is normal, healthy even, but do not let it consume you. I'll send Vargna over until you're back on your feet."

Xeran became aware that Cyda was not listening. She was part of a growing sphere of silence that seemed to ripple out through the gathered Astartes and across the training floor. He turned, following Cyda's gaze, and saw the intruders approaching.

 

Squad Tiberius stood out from the others. In truth, they'd have stood out even if they were ordinary Astartes. They wore the two-tone blue uniform of the Supernovas as described in the archives of Terra and Mars, which made them the only warriors to do so. Most wore blue and black, with emerald green being the common accompanying colour of their new Company. It was worn not in Codex approved fashion, but applied liberally, even haphazardly across squads or even individuals. The lack of orthodoxy bothered Tiberius, but he kept the thought to himself.

"Squad Tiberius reporting," Tiberius announced. "Respectfully, who here is the Fifth Captain?"

"That would be me," Cyda replied, rising to greet the new arrivals.

Tiberius took the Captain in with a glance. Corvus armour, common within the Chapter; pale skin and dark hair, seemingly the result of a gene-seed quirk, given how ubiquitous it seemed among older Marines; but there was something else, something in the eyes and the shape of the face.

"Is there a problem, Tiberius?"

"No sir," Tiberius responded. He averted his gaze and looked instead toward the aspirants. There were thirty of them, paired off and stripped to the waist. They came in all heights and colours, from pale, tattooed tribals to bronzed, blond youths. The stink of their sweat filled the room, and they still smelled mortal. It would be a few years yet before they were anywhere near worthy of being called Astartes. If they could ever be worthy of such a title.

 

One aspirant caught the sergeant's eye. A youth who was scarred by a violent childhood, just entering puberty and still human enough that their featured had yet to be deformed into Astartes proportions. She was female.

Xeran followed Tiberius' gaze and chuckled. "How fitting you're the one to have that talk with the outsiders," he said to Cyda.

"Isn't it just," she replied wearily. "Come, Tiberius. You and I should talk in private."

 

In the privacy of the Captain's office, away from prying eyes, Tiberius allowed his anger to spill forth. "Let me ensure I have this clear; your Chapter has violated the sacred gene-seed and created female warriors?"

"Yes," Cyda replied.

"That is an abomination!"

"That's rich, coming from you!" Cyda snapped back. "Did you ever consider how news of your coming would be met? When Master Dyus told us of you, the 'Primaris' Space Marines, we thought he'd finally developed a sense of humour! Astartes with modified gene-seed, created by a Primarch who has magically returned from the dead!"

Tiberius snarled, "is this going to be a recurring theme? Is every member of your Chapter going to insult the Lord Commander of the Imperium?"

"Consider this from our perspective," Cyda said as calmly as she could manage. "I believe in the Primarchs as I believe in the Emperor; that they once walked and talked and lived as men, but have long since passed. I believe they watch over us, help steer our fate, and that they will welcome our souls to Terra when death comes. But they are dead, and they will not return."

Tiberius opened his mouth to speak, but Cyda cut in, "choose your words with care, sergeant."

He settled on, "I do not understand why you deny the truth when it is stood before you."

"Because you represent a challenge to our faith," she replied, honestly. "If we are wrong about the Primarchs, what else might we be wrong about? I do not yet know what you are, Tiberius, but I know why you are not welcome on this world."

"Then you will send us away?"

"I didn't say that," she replied quickly. "Master Dyus has placed you under my command, and so I will accept this burden. Others, however, will not accept you so readily. It was the same with us Adepta. My advice is you do your best to adopt our customs."

 

"You can start with that armour," she added, pointing to Tiberius' chest. "We wear black to honour the Chapter Master, the helm if nothing else. Traditionally, the Chapter symbol is on the right shoulder-" she knocked her own right pauldron to emphasise the point, "-since most of the Chapter use Corvus plate. We wear green to honour Cylaros, the Chapter Champion. He rose from the Fifth. That's optional, but I'd encourage it. Lastly, most squads adopt an honour marking of some sort. The red helm crests you may have seen, or black and gold gauntlets. Those you can apply as and when you like, on one condition; you earn them first. You try to take an honour mark that doesn't belong to you, and I will personally send you back to your Primarch, if he exists, in a very small box. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," she banged a fist against the sergeant's left pauldron. "Now, let's get down to the arena. There's a little tradition called 'Taekar' that you need to learn very quickly..."

[Wargamer]

This segment of the story takes place after "Ironforged"

 

The decks rang with the sounds of battle, thought it was a mock one. Tiberius led his remaining Primaris against armies of meat-slaves; mindless slabs of muscle and bone built to better reflect the damage Astartes fighting techniques did on living foes.

 

Tiberius was unsettled, and he'd hoped the strict regimen of the Codex would give him solace. He was stripped down to a simple undergarment, his bare chest covered with the oily sheen of Astartes muscle. Chapter Serfs stood in the shadows, watching silently as their masters trained. Their eyes were on Tiberius and his Brothers; the strange new giants in their midst.

 

The pounding of his fists provided the accompaniment to his thoughts. What gnawed at him? Was it the loss of Bethor? He was a good warrior, a respected Brother. They had trained together on Holy Terra and made the long, perilous journey to this forsaken corner of the galaxy. Now he was dead. But surely all Astartes sought to die in battle in service of the Emperor? Yes, that was true, Tiberius was sure of that. So what was it?

 

The beating stopped. The meat-slave had broken, its bones shattered and internal cavities collapsed under the methodical assault of the Primaris. "Another", he said, and the Serfs obeyed. Had his mind not been clouded, he would have noticed the anxiety in their faces.

 

Was it the disrespect? These Supernovans had fallen far from the strict doctrines of Terra, and payed no heed at all to the Primarch's reforms. Throne, they wouldn't even accept he lived again! They had mocked and scorned and belittled ever since Tiberius and his men arrived, even the Chapter Master! Such insolence! Such disrespect! Such... such Heresy!

 

"Tiberius!"

 

The roar brought Tiberius back from his private world. He saw his left arm outstretched, frozen in time by the shout. His hands were bloodied, but it was not his own; most of it came from the ruptured arteries of the meat-slave, whose headless body remained upright only because of its brass frame. He uncurled his fist, staring at it as though it were unfamiliar to him, and slowly returned to a composed position.

 

"Getting a bit carried away, aren't you?" Captain Cyda asked. Tiberius turned toward her, but remained silent.

"If you're done scaring the :cuss out of the Serfs, Apothecary Maric wants to see you. Don't keep him waiting."

"Yes, Captain," Tiberius replied. He gave one last glance toward the ruined training instrument and felt a new anxiety, one that was most unwelcome. He shrugged it off and went in search of the Apothecary.

 

 

Maric was old, and wore the scars of long service clearly on his face. Most of his hair had turned to grey, and bald patches formed over the deep cuts and puncturing blows rained down on him in battles past. On his left cheek was the least prominent injury; in the right light it looked like an almost circular burn with the letters "ThF" in the centre. He was sat at a cold metal desk, staring at a green-tinted screen while a pair of women, mortal serfs, busied themselves with unknown tasks.

"You asked for me, Apothecary?" Tiberius asked by way of introduction.

Maric did not look up from his reading. "Fascinating. Your progenoids or Bethor's progenoid at least, is truly fascinating."

For a while that was all Maric said. Tiberius waited with forced patience for the Apothecary to remember his presence. "Remind me, of what stock were you made?"

"The Primarch's," Tiberius answered proudly."

This caused a humourless smile to form on Maric's broken lips. "Well that could be true, I suppose. Could be true indeed. Not that I believe it."

The alien feeling returned at those words; that strange, hostile emotion directed toward a Battle Brother. Yet before Tiberius could voice it Maric looked up and met his gaze.

"Our Chapter has certain irregularities in the gene stock," he explained. "This sort of thing is not uncommon. We have trivial deviations in sequences 203, 318 and 394, and minor deviations in-" he paused, chuckling to himself, "this is meaningless to you, isn't it?"

Tiberius nodded.

"My apologies, sergeant. I'm used to conversing with the medically inclined. To put it in simple terms, as we grow older our skin pales and hair darkens, up to a point." he ran a hand through his own grey hair, "But there are other consequences as well. Deviations in the rate of muscle growth, unique mutations in axon structure, and so on. These mutations we have known about and understood for thousands of years, and they are quite stable by this point. If I'm correct, they're also present in your own genetic structure."

"Are you suggesting my Brothers and I were created using yo- our Chapter's geneseed as a base template?"

Maric nodded, "I'm no expert, but that's what my findings suggest. If these mutations interact with your biology the way they do with ours, that lovely blonde hair of yours will likely be brown or auburn in a few decades. You might lose your healthy complexion too."

"What about emotional reactions?" Tiberius asked.

"Well, that's an interesting question. You might find yourself feeling a bit impulsive, maybe even blood hungry. I don't know if that's generic or cultural, you see. But my fear is the unknown; your Primaris progenoids contain genetic sequences I don't recognise and can't begin to fathom. Throne, I barely understand ordinary gene-seed! So for your sake, and that of your Brothers, I need you to report any irregularities you experience to me or another senior Apothecary. Understood?"

"Understood," Tiberius answered.

 

His thoughts returned to the training room and that sudden, inexplicable anger that had so briefly stolen his senses.

"Was there anything you wanted to ask?" Maric said.

Tiberius shook his head, "Nothing. I should return to training. But before I go I do have a question. Do you believe that Guilliman lives?"

Maric scratched the old burn scar on his cheek. "Yesterday I'd have dismissed the idea, but now I'm not so sure. No Magos Biologis could have created you. Unless the Emperor Himself has risen from the dead, it's hard to think of another explanation."

"I see," Tiberius answered, almost disappointed. He'd wanted to see if that strange anger would return. "Thank you for your time."

"My door is always open, Brother," Maric replied as he returned to his work, "although I do hope not to see you carried through it too often."