Angels of Darkness

'Nestor here, Brother-Chaplain,' the Apothecary answered.

'Please come up to the apothecarion, I have a matter I wish to discuss with you,' Boreas said.

'Affirmative. I will be there shortly,' Nestor replied.

Boreas walked over to the nearest operating table and looked at his reflection in its gleaming metal surface.

Many times he had been in such a place, either as a patient or to provide spiritual support for those under­going surgery. He had also spent too many occasions in an apothecarion saying the rites of passing over a dying battle-brother, while an Apothecary had removed the progenoid glands so that the sacred gene-seed might be passed on to future warriors. It was the most important function any Apothecary could perform, and essential to the survival of the Chapter.

New gene-seed was all but impossible to create - cer­tainly no Chapter Boreas knew of had ever achieved such a feat - and so future generations of Space Marines relied solely on the vital gene-seed storage organs that every Space Marine was implanted with. Every Marine had two progenoids, and in theory his death could help create two replacements. But despite the daring and brave efforts of the Apothecaries, too many progenoids were lost on the field of battle before they could be harvested to ever ensure the continued existence of a Chapter. It was the task of the Chaplains to teach every Space Marine of the legacy he held within himself, to educate them in their duty to the continued glory of the Chapter. A Space Marine was taught that although he may be asked to sac­rifice his life at any moment, he should never sell his life in vain, for by doing so he betrayed those who would come after him.

There was a popular Imperial saying: Only in death does duty end. But for the Space Marines, even death did not bring an end to their duty to protect mankind and the Imperium the Emperor's servants had created. In death they lived on in newly created Space Marines. Some, those whose physical bodies could not be saved, might be interred in the mighty walking tanks called dread­noughts, to live on for a thousand years as gigantic warriors encased in an unliving body of plasteel, adamandum and ceramite. In such a way, over ten thou­sand years of the Imperium, there was a bond of brotherhood from the very first Space Marines to those who had only just been ordained as Scouts of the Tenth Company. It was this very physical relationship that bound together every warrior of the Chapter. Not merely for tradition's sake were they called battle-brothers.

Or so the litanies taught, but Boreas knew different. He had learnt many things when he had become a member of the Deathwing, the elite Inner Circle of the Dark Angels. He had learnt yet more during his interrogation of the Fallen Angel, Astelan, things which even now still troubled him.

The hiss of the hermetically sealed doors opening her­alded the arrival of Apothecary Nestor. Of the five Space Marines currently under Boreas's command, Nestor had been a Space Marine for the longest, and by quite some margin. Boreas had served as one of the Dark Angels for nearly three hundred years, but at over six hundred years old Nestor was one of the oldest members of the Chap­ter. Boreas did not know why the veteran had not risen higher, why he had never been admitted to the Death­wing. Nestor was one of the finest Apothecaries on the field of battle, and Boreas owed his life to him when he had been wounded in the battle for the basilica. Nestor had also been honoured for his heroic fighting during the first ork assault on Koth Ridge.

In looks, the Apothecary was even more grizzled than Boreas. His thick, waxy skin was pitted and scarred across his face, and six service studs were hammered into his forehead, one for every century of service. His eyes were dark and his head shaved bald, giving the medic a men­acing appearance that was entirely at odds with the conscientious, caring man Boreas knew him to be. That care was not to be mistaken for weakness, though; in bat­tle Nestor was as fierce as any warrior Boreas had fought alongside.

'How can I help you?' the Apothecary asked, walking past Boreas and leaning back against the operating table.

Boreas thought he caught a flicker of something in Nestor's eye, a momentary flash of nervousness.

'Hephaestus says my eye might have shifted in the wound, and he recommended that you examine it,' Boreas said quickly, looking directly at the Apothecary.

'Perhaps it became dislodged at Vartoth,' suggested Nestor, standing upright and indicating for Boreas to lie down on the table. The Interrogator-Chaplain did so, staring up at the bright lamp directly above the examination slab. Nestor disappeared for a moment before returning with one of his instruments, with which he gently probed at the cauterised flesh on the right side of Boreas's face. Most of it was in fact artifi­cial flesh grafted on the metal plate that replaced much of Boreas's temple, cheek and brow. He could feel the point dully prodding at his face as the Apothe­cary examined the old wound. With a grunt, Nestor straightened up.

'There seems to be some tearing on the graft, nothing serious,' Nestor commented. 'Is it causing you discom­fort?'

'No more than usual,' said Boreas, sitting up and swinging his legs off the table. 'Do you think it could worsen?'

'Over time, yes it will. Some of the capillaries have retracted, others have collapsed, and the flesh is dying off slowly. It would require a new graft to heal completely' Nestor glanced around the apothecarion for a moment before continuing. 'I do not have the facilities here to perform such a procedure, I am afraid. I will provide you with a solution to bathe your face in each morning, which should hopefully slow the necrofication. There is no need to worry about infection, your body is already more than capable of cleansing itself of any kind of dis­ease you might pick up on Piscina.'

'Hephaestus will be pleased,' said Boreas. 'He worries overmuch.'

'Does he?' Nestor asked quietly, placing his instrument in an auto-cleanser concealed within the wall of the apothecarion.

'Your meaning?' Boreas said, standing up and adjusting his heavy robe. 'You have just confirmed that there is no cause for concern.'

'With your eye, that is true,' Nestor said over his shoul­der. He removed the probe and returned it carefully to its place amongst the scalpels, mirrors, needles and other tools of his craft. 'However, one cause for the loss of blood to your graft might be stress on the rest of your body.'

'You think I need a fuller examination?' Boreas asked, looking down at himself. 'I feel healthy.'

'That is not what I mean,' Nestor replied with a slight shake of his head.

'Then say what you mean,' snapped Boreas, tired of this subtle innuendo. 'What do you think is wrong?'

'Forgive me, Brother-Chaplain,' Nestor bowed his head in acquiescence. 'I was merely making an observation.'

'Well, make your observation clearer, by the Lion!' barked Boreas.

'Out of all of us, it must be hardest for you to be gar­risoned here, away from our brethren,' Nestor stated, raising his gaze to meet Boreas's.

'What do you mean?' asked Boreas.

'When we are troubled, it is to you we turn to remind us of our sacred duties, to refresh the vows we have all pledged,' Nestor explained softly. 'When we lament the inactivity of our post, when we crave the companionship of the others, it is you who gives us guidance and wis­dom. But to whom does the guide turn?'

'It is because of my faith and strength of mind that I was chosen to become a Chaplain,' Boreas pointed out. 'It is our role to pass on that inner strength to others.'

'Then forgive my error,' Nestor said quickly. 'One such as I, who on occasion has doubts, and who must be steered along the bloody path we walk, cannot under­stand what mind you must have to walk that path alone.'

'No more than I can understand the purposes of the machines in this chamber, or the secrets of the Caliban helix within our gene-seed, like you can,' Boreas answered after a moment's thought. 'No more than I can understand the workings of this fake eye which Hep­haestus manufactured for me from cold metal and glass, and yet he gives it a semblance of life.'

'Yes, I suppose we each have our purpose here on this world,' agreed Nestor, slapping Boreas on the arm. 'Hep­haestus for the machines, myself for the body. And you, Brother-Chaplain, for our mind and souls.'

'And so, I ask you in return what troubles you have,' Boreas said, seeing his opportunity to steer the conversa­tion onto a track more to his liking. He was certain that Nestor was not questioning his thoughts or his loyalty, but the more he spoke about such things, the more Boreas heard the laughter of Astelan ringing in his ears.

'I am content,' Nestor replied. 'I have served the Emperor and the Lion for six centuries, and perhaps if I am fortunate I may serve him yet for two more. But I have done my duty. I have bathed in the white-hot fires of bat-tie and created new generations of Dark Angels. The things I once strived to prove to myself and my brothers I have now done, and all that remains is to pass on what I know and retain the pride and dignity of our Chapter. If fate and the Supreme Grand Master see fit for me to end my days on Piscina IV, I shall not be the one to argue against it'

'You are surely too experienced to be given such a mundane duty though,' said Boreas, crossing his arms tightly. 'With such experience as you have, do you not think your time would be better spent in the Tower of Angels teaching those who will follow after you? Acting as nursemaid to a Chaplain with a broken eye is hardly worthy of your talents.'

'Are you trying to provoke me, Brother-Chaplain?' Nestor said harshly. ' follow the will of the Emperor and I say again that I am content. Piscina is a recruiting sys­tem, not just some watch post or augury. It is because of my skill and experience that I can judge those who might come after. I am entrusted in more ways than you can know with the Chapter's future.'

'I did not seek to belittle what you do here, my words were perhaps ill-judged and for that I apologise,' Boreas hastily replied, uncrossing his arms and taking a step towards Nestor. The Apothecary smiled and nodded in acceptance of Boreas's apology. With a last glance, Boreas turned away and walked towards the door.

'Brother-chaplain,' Nestor called after him, and he stopped and turned. 'Are you not forgetting something?'

'I can recite the three hundred verses of the Caliban Chronicles, I do not forget things,' Boreas pointed out.

'Then you don't want the elixir for soothing your face?' Nestor said.

'Bring it to me at this evening's meal,' Boreas replied with a smile.

Boreas continued down the stairwell to the next level in search of the other senior member of his squad. He paused at the landing and gazed out of the thick glass of the narrow window, collecting his thoughts. Thick smog obscured most of the view, so that the towers and factories in the distance were only vague silhouettes. A bird fluttered past close by, before disappearing into the brownish-grey clouds. As he watched it fade into the distance, he realised that the con­versations with Hephaestus and Nestor had shown him that he needed to spend more time with the others, rather than dwell on his own misgivings. That they thought he somehow doubted them, that he was subdy testing them, proved to him that they had become unaccustomed to his company. Turning away from the window, he continued down the stairs to the first storey.

Here were the quarters for the aspirants, and Boreas knew he would find Veteran Sergeant Damas in the gym­nasium with them, continuing the rigorous physical training they started as soon as they were brought to the keep. Although Boreas was in command of the outpost, the aspirants were Damas's responsibility. Having attained the rank of veteran sergeant, he had been moved to the Tenth Company as part of the recruiting force. Like the others on Piscina, Damas had received honours for his conduct during the ork invasion. He, along with his Scout squad and the now legendary Sergeant Naaman, had infiltrated the ork lines and, after gathering vital intelligence on the enemy, destroyed one of the relays the aliens had been using to power their massive orbital teleporter. It had been a huge setback to the ork advance, and though Damas was seriously wounded whilst the infil­trators retreated, he had held off the ork counter-attack long enough for his squad to get away.

Damas was amongst the fourteen youths under his tute­lage. Nearly half as tall again as his charges, even without his armour, he was a giant even by the standards of the Space Marines. When Boreas entered, the aspirants were seated in a circle around the veteran sergeant. Boreas listened in for a moment standing in the shadow of the doorway.

'Your first weapon is your body,' Damas was telling his attentive audience. 'Even before you are given bones and muscles like mine, I can teach you how to break a man's neck with a single blow. I can show you how to crush his internal organs with your fists, disable him with your fin­gers and cripple him with your elbows and knees.'

He bent down and placed his plate-sized hand on the head of one of the youths.

'With the strength given to me by the Apothecaries and my faith, I can pulp your brain in a second,' he told the boy, who laughed nervously, eliciting more laughter from the others. 'More than that, I can withstand any attack you might make on me.'

Damas instructed the youths to stand up, and pointed at one of them, telling him to hit him as hard as possi­ble. Hesitantly, the boy approached.

'I will not strike back,' Damas assured the boy. 'But if you hesitate to follow my orders again, I will have you thrashed.'

Chastened, the boy charged with a shrill yell and flung his fist at Damas's abdomen. The blow would have merely winded an ordinary man, by Boreas's reckoning, and it failed to even rock Damas on his heels. The boy gave a squeal and clutched his bruised knuckles. Boreas chuckled, along with the aspirants. The only vital part of a Space Marine not protected by his black carapace was his head. Hearts, lungs, stomach, chest, all were impervi­ous to any unarmed blow from even the strongest assailant.

Hearing the Chaplain's mirth, Damas looked over. Fol­lowing their instructor's gaze, the aspirants caught sight of Boreas and fell instantly into a solemn silence, their heads bowed. Boreas walked in, and clapped a hand to the back of the lad who had attacked Damas, nearly knocking him from his feet.

'A brave attempt,' Boreas said, helping the boy to steady himself. He recognised him as Beyus, one of the two hopefuls he had brought in just before the battle at Vartoth. He had evidently recovered from his crippling shock. In just the few days that had passed since his arrival, the boy was already changed. His head was shaved bald, and all the puppy fat was gone from his strong torso. The boy stood straighter, and his gaze was fiercer than before. Damas was doing a good job.

'Run!' barked Damas, clapping his hands twice, and with no further words the boys began to jog around the wall of the gymnasium, which stretched across the whole floor of the tower. Their pounding bare feet on the wooden boards masked the two Space Marines' conver­sation.

'I see things are proceeding well,' Boreas started, look­ing at the running youths.

'They are a good selection. The last two in particular show a lot of potential,' agreed Damas with a nod. Then his look darkened slightly. 'But only fourteen this sea­son? The Tower of Angels will be here in less than half a year, and they will be expecting thirty recruits for second-stage testing.'

'Would you rather we fell short of our quota, than passed on boys who will fail within minutes?' asked Boreas. 'If the quality is not there, it is not there.'

'You know what I am talking about,' Damas insisted. 'I cannot understand your reluctance.'

'You are referring to the eastern tribes?' Boreas replied. 'You think we should take our recruits from those sav­ages?'

'They are all savages,' countered Damas with a shrug. 'I see no distinction.'

'And yet I do,' the Chaplain replied. 'I have told you before that they are too bloodthirsty, even for our pur­poses. If we still had a whole company stationed here I would exterminate them. Some of their practices are, well, bordering on the intolerable. They have stopped worshipping the Emperor, and have reverted to a bar­barism I fear even we cannot strip them of with a decade of training.'

'They remind me much of my own people of Slathe,' Damas commented pointedly. 'Perhaps your judgment of them is overly harsh.'

'Perhaps your continual persistence with this matter indicates other reservations,' suggested Boreas. 'It has been several months now since we have spoken about anything else.'

'I see the numbers of aspirants dwindling, and it causes me concern, that is all,' Damas replied calmly. 'I feel it is my duty to remind you of the options available to us. No disrespect of your position is intended, I understand that we each have our own duties and codes to which we must adhere.'

'Perhaps it is their similarity to the tribes of Slathe that burdens you,' Boreas said.

'You think I perhaps yearn for my homeworld?' asked Damas with a frown.

'Yearn is too strong a word, I do not for a moment doubt your loyalty to the Dark Angels,' Boreas replied. 'It is a wise tradition that we are not posted to our home-worlds, for fear of what that might bring. Perhaps it was an error for you to be here, near a world so similar to the one you came from.'

'I do not see it as an error,' argued Damas. 'My home-world is now the Tower of Angels and has been for two centuries. Slathe is just one of many worlds I have sworn to protect.'

'Then it is I who have erred,' conceded Boreas with a gracious nod. 'I do not wish you to think that I have any reservations about your performance. I am here as your guardian and advisor, I wish you to feel free to express any anxieties you may have.'

'Then I am anxious that we have so few recruits, and that is all,' Damas said quietly.

'Very well, I shall note your recommendations in my journal, so that if we fall below our quota, no blame shall be attached to you,' promised Boreas.

'It is not blame that concerns me, Brother-Chaplain, it is the future strength of our Chapter,' Damas corrected the Interrogator-Chaplain.

'Then I shall make my entry reflect that,' said Boreas. 'Their numbers notwithstanding, you are happy with this batch of aspirants?'

'All have improved their skills, and met my expecta­tions,' confirmed Damas, clapping his hands twice again. In a rush of feet, the aspirants gathered around the two Space Marines, attentive to their instructor.

'I shall leave you to your pupils,' said Boreas, and turned to leave. As he walked out of the door, he heard the veteran sergeant commanding his group to break into pairs for unarmed combat practice.