The Homesick

[Wargamer]

Tiber wandered through the halls of the Fifth, drifting from chamber to chamber, a lost soul unable to find the quiet of the grave.

 

The expedition had been successful. Tiber and his squad, assisted by the Librarian Seyth, had brought fire and fury to a dozen worlds and slaughtered thousands in the Emperor's name. Most were servants of Chaos. A few had once been loyal servants of the Emperor's Legions.

 

Upon awakening in this Dark Imperium he had been told of many things, not least of all the great betrayals of ten millennia past. They had all struggled to accept such things were possible; the very idea that the Legions and their Primarchs could forsake the Emperor was the single most farcical thing any man could ever have envisioned. But then, as he had learned and was still learning every day, this world was every bit a farce.

 

It was difficult to express these feelings to his battle brothers, especially those outside of the squad. This reality was all they'd ever known; a world that had taken everything the Emperor valued and cast it away in the name of foolish superstition. How could he explain the Imperial Truth to someone who was convinced, unshakably, that upon death their "soul" would journey to Terra and stand beside the Emperor's throne?

 

In time he lost the will to wander and sat himself down upon a marble bench. He sat hunched over with helmet in hand. It was both old and new at the same time; new for him, but the Chapter had built it thousands of years ago. It was a Corvus helm, based upon the finest suits developed prior to the... the event he could not name. Not even in the privacy of his own thoughts. He had stood against the Death Guard and seen visions of the Legions slaughtering one another, and yet he still could not accept it.

 

"The Librarian said you would be here," a harsh voice growled at him from the shadows. The speaker stepped forward and the harshness became apparent; his voice emanated from a vox-grille in the centre of a dulled metal choker.

"What Librarian?" he asked the Techmarine.

Rather than answer, the Techmarine raised his axe and gestured to a side passage. "Along here, Brother. Best not keep the Old Ones waiting."

 

 

 

Without a word of explanation, the Techmarine led Tiber through mile after mile of service corridors and maintenance tunnels threading deep below the surface of Tasal. Here and there signs of damage and hasty repair suggested that the Tyrannic War had waged in these dark places, and in the cold gloom one couldn't help but note the Trygon sized stretches of fresh plaster.

 

In due course the tunnels gave way to a wider chamber, most likely an armoury. Servitors plodded through the corridor or trundled along, slaved to tracked machines of bizarre design. Their actions stirred the air and blew wafts of oil, sweat and incense into Tiber's nostrils. After a while he paused and stuck out his tongue to better taste the air. For a moment, it tasted of a dried up river. But only for a moment.

 

At last, the Techmarine seemed to notice him again. "He sleeps through here. We have entered the Noosphere and spoken to his dreams. He will awaken shortly."

"I still do not know why I am here," Tiber replied, exasperated.

"I was told you were to speak to the Old One, and so you shall," the Techmarine answered calmly before standing aside to make room for the Primaris.

 

Inside the chamber was yet another relic of the past. The Supernovas claimed to have been created in the Second Founding, and Tiber had to admit their collection of antiques certainly supported the claim. This one in particular was truly impressive; a Contemptor Dreadnought, much like the ones that once strode beside the Legions during the Great Crusade.

 

At Tiber watched the machine began to stir. It did not awaken fully from its dormant state, but the feeds and cables rattled as the pilot was coaxed back into the world of the living. With a low electric hum the great eyes of the machine's helmet flickered into life, casting dull red beams down onto the chamber floor.

"Tiberius,"  the voice seemed to echo from every corner of the room at once.

"Yes, I am Sergeant Tiberius of the Fifth," Tiber replied.

"The Dream said you wished an audience with me. That only I would do, no other. No other is old enough," there was a deep rumbling from the Contemptor as its body rose upright in its cradle, allowing the eyes to fix on the Primaris. "Why have you roused me from my slumber?"

Tiber fought the urge to back away from the giant machine. It was unarmed, and even if it were the Dreadnought would have no reason to harm him, yet Tiber feared its wroth all the same. "I... I do not know. I was summed to you just as you were summoned to me. I only know it was a Librarian who wished me to meet you."

The eyes of the machine flared brightly for a moment, "​Librarians! Practitioners of forbidden sorcery! Mark me, boy; no good comes of listening to their counsel!"

"Duly noted, Old One," Tiber replied diplomatically.

There was a long pause as the Contemptor settled himself, letting the sudden flare of anger slowly burn away. "Laerta," he said at last, "My name was Laerta, named for Laertes, Hero of Tasal."

"I do not know of him."

"Hah. Perhaps you know him by some other name.  They cannot even remember my name most of the time. Is that why you came? To learn of Laertes? Or, perhaps, of me?"

Tiber sighed and hung his head, "Knowing my Brothers this is some elaborate prank. No doubt they are snickering at the thought of me stood here, embarrassing myself and wasting your precious time."

A strange sound escaped the Contemptor; an almost wistful hiss, "Would that I had time worth wasting. I had nought to do today but dream of the old days. I was dreaming of the amber fields of Canyor, of Far Xason and the wondrous machines of Yakliht. When the Tyranids came I walked again under the sun, and when the slaughter ended I strode off in search of these places again. Canyor's fields had been swallowed by the trees; Xason, fallen into the sea; of Yakliht I found nothing, not even a myth. There is a world above my head, but it is not Tasal. Tasal exists now only in my dreams..."

 

Tiber listened to the Contemptor's words in contemplative silence, and as the ancient warrior's thoughts drifted he realised why he had been led here. He took a knee and placed the Corvus helm down carefully upon the stone floor so that he could look into its eyes and see his past reflecting back.

"I was born on Terra. Not the Terra that exists now, Terra as it was. Terra as the Emperor wished it to be. I grew up in Old Albia, in the war-clade shelters of Merrecynd. I learned the Imperial Truth in the shadow of the Broken Spire, and it was hard to learn with all the noise. Every day hammering, sawing, roaring of engines, all the sounds of a city being rebuilt. One day, they said, one day Merrecynd will be great again."

"What fate befell Merrecynd?" the Contemptor asked.

Tiber pretended not to hear him, "There was a legend I had learned from the cradle. Merrecynd had been a river town once, before the rivers boiled away in atomic fire. Ravens used to roost in the warlord's spire, and legend had it that if the ravens ever abandoned the city the river would burst its banks and Merrecynd would crumble. My grandparents told me that, one day, the ravens all fled. A week later the Thunder Warriors smashed down the walls, toppled the spire and slaughtered anyone foolish enough to stand against them. Many, many souls were so foolish. Not my grandparents though; they saw the Emperor as a saviour, not a conqueror."

"I am curious, Tiberius of the Fifth; how does one so young have memories of such an age?"

At last, Tiber met Laerta's gaze again, "because from my perspective only a few short years have passed since those days. I was to join the Legions, the Dusk Raiders, and fight across the stars to spread the Imperial Truth. Instead I was sealed away in suspended animation, only to awaken as what I am now."

"A 'Primaris', yes? A Primarch's vision of the future?"

Tiber gave a short, pained laugh, "No. A citizen of the Imperium, called upon to fight for a degenerate mockery of everything the Imperium stood for."

 

Afterwards, with the clarity of hindsight, Tiber wondered if he had gone too far with those words. Still, Laerta had apparently recognised them for what they were; an expression of pain, not disloyalty.

"I knew a man who suffered as you do," the Contemptor said in as kindly a tone as its booming voice could manage, "His name was Laertes, and he was a great warrior of the Ultramarines Legion. When the Word Bearers broke from the Imperium he was forced to slay men he'd once called brother, an act that he never truly came to terms with. I was named for him, as so many were; names like 'Lata', or 'Lasa' are bastardisations of his name, corrupted by the native tongues of this world. Like you he longed for a better time, and he wished to recreate those times with us. We were to be Laertes' Legionaries, for if he commanded a Legion then he could pretend the Heresy had never come to pass."

Tiber, to his own surprise, couldn't help but smile at the tale, "You are saying I am like the Chapter Master of old? Longing for the Imperium of my youth?"

"Perhaps, had things been different, you two would have fought side by side... although, if the Death Guard had recruited you as intended, it is more likely you would have fought against him."

"I would never have turned against the Imperium!" Tiber answered sharply, rising quickly to his feet to answer the challenge to his loyalty.
There was a brief dimming of the Dreadnought's eyes, "I chose my words poorly. Forgive my rudeness."

"There is nothing to forgive," Tiber replied as his mind returned to his encounter with the Plague Marine. The Contemptor was right. There, but for a quirk of fate went he. Would he have sold his soul to the Dark Gods for revenge as they had? Or would he have been one of the Warp-touched Traitors who gunned them down? These were not pleasant thoughts, and so he swiftly banished them.

 

"I know now why I am here," Tiber said with confidence. "I am here to ask you a question: do you believe the Tasal of your dreams can be restored?"

The Dreadnought fell silent as its pilot considered the question. At length, the booming voice returned, "I believe that it is only truly lost when no soul has the courage to fight for its restoration."

"Thank you, Ancient," Tiber answered with a low bow. He rose, then knelt to retrieve his helmet.

"Do not leave," Laerta commanded. "All the brothers of my age, and yours, are long dead. I miss the dreams they shared with me. Indulge me, Tiberius, and reminisce of Terra as you remember it."

Tiber smiled at the Dreadnought. "I would like to be remembered as 'Tiber', if you don't mind."

Edited August 1, 2017 by Wargamer