The Trial of the Mantis Warriors

CS Goto

A faint mist of light hung in the darkness, casting the vaulted chamber into a grimy and spectral half-life. Specks of dust danced suspended in the twilight, hazing the shadows with interference. From the apex of the central dome a single cone of light cut clarity into the heart of the gold-edged Imperial aquila that was etched into the deck. The hall seemed to fade away from this shining pillar of truth, retreating into the heavy shadows of its circular perimeter, where hints of grave faces haunted the darkness. Standing between the wings of the double-headed eagle, as though entrapped by the single column of light, Chapter Master Neotera’s eyes shone with fierce resolve and disbelief. How had it come to this?

His bearing proud despite the humiliation, Neotera held his gaze directly ahead, showing no signs of listening to the whispers of accusation and allegation that hissed around the dark recesses of the Council of Judgement. Held in the beam of light, his armour glittering like a polished emerald, he could not see the faces of the ghostly, shadow-veiled judges. But he knew who they were. They could not disguise their voices from him, and they did not try. This was a court of honour, and the purpose of the darkness was not to hide their identity from him, but rather to hide them from his shame. It did not matter who they were; it mattered who he was, and what he had done.

The Chapter Master of the Mantis Warriors wore no shackles; nobody feared that he would attempt to escape his fate. Under one arm he held his helmet, so that his long, black hair cascaded freely down his back. The tendrils of his elaborate tattoos could be seen reaching around his neck, and his pale blue eyes glimmered aquamarine in the spotlight. Hanging at his other side was Metasomata, his revered and elaborately curved blade, celebrated throughout the Religiosa Realms as the Venom of Tamulus; it seemed to shimmer with control and restraint just fractions from the hand of its master. Amongst the legends of the Mantis Legion, only the account of the Maetrus’s Foundation of the Mantidae rivalled in glory that of the Purgation of Mordriana, in which Neotera was reputed to have purified the overrun jungles of the home world in the discipline of the Old Way, with no armour and only his blade strung across his back and devotion in his heart.

The members of the Council of Judgement knew him well, and they acknowledged him as a Space Marine of peerless honour. None feared his lethal weapon or his celebrated skill at bladed combat. Many had fought at his side in previous campaigns, and more than one owed him their life. The autocannons embedded into the walls as precautions against the criminal, the violent, or the deranged lay dormant and inactivated. Yet the great Neotera stood before them now as their prisoner. They could see how he held his gaze directly ahead, firm and unwavering, not insulting them by looking at them as he awaited their judgement on the charges of treachery and rebellion. He waited, already resolved to die at their word, to take his shame before the Emperor himself, and to purge the sins of his battle-brothers in the fires of a pyre. No others would suffer for his crimes.

‘Do you have nothing to say, Master Neotera?’

Will you say nothing?

The impersonal voices from the shadows were firm and unyielding, yet Neotera could feel the compassion in them. He knew that many in the council wanted to understand what he had done. They wanted him to explain, as though explanations were possible or helpful. There were those in the council who would have once called him brother, who would have followed him into the depths of the Maelstrom itself, taking the righteous fury of the Emperor into the heart of Chaos. They had seen Metasomata carve venom-tinged light into the darkness of the worlds lost in the fringe of the Maelstrom. They wanted to believe that his fall had a reason, that he had lost himself to some kind of irresistible sorcery, that he was no longer the Space Marine he once was. They wanted to find something of him in his explanation, a part of him or his story that could be salvaged for the archives or even for their own personal reassurance. Yet their compassion was underscored by fear, fear that there might be no such explanation, that others might be tempted to make the same choices that he had made. Fear that there was actually nothing wrong with Neotera at all, and that he could be any one of them.

Fear provoked denial. And denial brought anger into the words of others.

‘Do you ridicule this council, Mantis Warrior?’

Do you find us unworthy even of your words?

‘Do you hold us in contempt even now?’

The voices and thoughts swirled around him, challenging his pride, daring him to break his silence and to attempt to argue. The psychic interrogations probed at his mind, making him dizzy and nauseous. His soul cried out in anger and horror, demanding that he turn the indignance back at his accusers but simultaneously pleading for them to stop asking for words and to simply condemn him. He had nothing to say to them. There was nothing that words could undo.

The silent Chapter Master meant no further offence to this revered and ghostly council, and he refused to be drawn into a contest of words. His crimes were clear for all to see; he had denied nothing. He would not make things worse for his battle-brothers or for the honour of the Mantis Warriors by engaging in the cheap competition of excuses and explanations. He was Adeptus Astartes, one of the Emperor’s chosen servants, and he would not play the grubby word-games of servitors, Arbites or inquisitors. History would judge him harshly for his silence, but nobody could judge him more severely than he judged himself. For history, he cared not one iota. For himself, he had given up all hope of salvation – he had taken steps from which there was no returning, and he would not shame his name further by scrambling hopelessly for the last pathetic phantasms of deliverance. He accepted his damnation, and so the condemnation of this revered council held no greater horror for him. Once the fall begins, there is only flame and sword.

Your crimes are heinous beyond our understanding.

‘You must help us to understand, Mantis Master.’

Will you say nothing, Neotera? Will you not help us?

‘If you say nothing, we can offer no mercy.’

There was a long, resigned silence as the judges waited without hope of hearing a response. The hearing had been in session for three days already, and the Mantis Warrior had not yet spoken, other than to acknowledge his name and rank when he had first been brought before the council. He had not even taken advantage of his right to know whom he faced; which great Chapters the Masters and senior Librarians had been drawn from to compose this Council of Judgement. For three entire days, he had not moved, not a finger or a flicker of an eyelid, and a fine sprinkling of dust had settled out of the air onto the broad, emerald shoulders of his ceremonial armour. He was a statue, the very icon of the immaculate and devoted warrior. And yet he stood before a punitive court that had not been convened for countless centuries; he stood with no defence against the charges and no hope of emancipation.

He was guilty.

For the last three days, his mind had gradually turned in on itself. A question spiralled and spun through his thoughts, but it was not one of those thrown at him by his judges.

How had it come to this?

The question obsessed him, as though it had woven itself into the very fabric of his being. He had been sure. He had been right. And yet, how had it come to this? Not for the first time in his long and brutal life, Neotera recognised the potential of his soul to embrace the kind of fanatical focus and devotion of the Mantis Religiosa. He could feel how easy it would be to release the last vestiges of his sense of self, undeserving as it was, and to lose his will in the vast and blinding brilliance of the Emperor’s terrible magnificence. The Religiosa lived as the lost and the saved, having no sense of their own needs and only a pure devotion to the Imperial Will.

The intrepid and pious Captain Maetrus of the 2nd Company had only recently discovered a possible source of this tendency in some Mantis Warriors; he hypothesised that it was connected to a uniquely altered neuro-toxic function of the preomnor implant in the Chapter’s gene-seed. However, rather than seeing it as a curse that condemned its victims to the life of fanatical devotion of the Mantis Religiosa, Maetrus argued that it was a reward for faithfulness. The heightened sense of focus and the contracted perception of space and time that accompanied it sharpened a Space Marine’s reflexes to an unprecedented degree, sometimes even giving the impression of mild precognition. During the last years of the war, Maetrus had sought Neotera’s permission to develop a specialist cadre of Space Marines able to harness this blessed curse, claiming that they might tip the balance in the seemingly interminable battles with the Star Phantoms and the Novamarines. He had wanted to call them the Praying Mantidae, but the demands of the war had stretched resources to breaking point – before they had finally broken in such spectacular fashion – and Neotera had not been able to spare the Space Marines that Maetrus requested.

Neotera wanted to close his eyes and swim in his regrets and laments.

How had it come to this?

The temptation to surrender himself to the light was almost overwhelming. He had felt it before, and it had helped him in situations even more lethal than the one he was in now. For the tiniest and most horrifying moment, Neotera wondered whether this descending battle-haze would be enough for him to unleash the Venom of Tamulus on those who sat in false judgement over him. There were only twelve of them – he had beaten worse odds before. Perhaps it was they who sinned against the Emperor? Perhaps he had been right after all – it was his righteous duty to cut down these heretics and hypocrites who dared to stand in judgement over him.

But the moment passed in a heartbeat, and then the appalling shame of the thoughts crashed even more weight into his overburdened soul. He knew he had been wrong, that his war against the agents of the Imperium had been mistaken, that his own judgement had failed him, and that in his failure resided the damnation of all his battle-brothers. It was he, and he alone, who should bear the fury and the agony and the shame. Clinging to even the faintest hope that he had been right and that the edifice of the Imperium of Man itself was mistaken just compounded his crimes with egregious arrogance. He could not even stand to let the idea enter his head; it violated the very foundations of his being.

Even hidden within the confines of his own thoughts, Neotera felt his crimes worsening and his soul screaming in anguish. Yet, to the judges around him, he was a statue of control and composure. His eyes unblinking and his breath all but indiscernible. The certainty of his guilt hardened in his resolve, and his jaw clenched imperceptibly.

How had it come to this?

While his eyes kept Neotera crisply and painfully in the spotlight on the aquila, his thoughts searched desperately for answers. He didn’t want explanations for the Council, but part of him needed to know when it had all gone wrong. Why hadn’t he seen it?

He realised that Maetrus had seen the truth first. The brilliant captain had sent a communiqué to Neotera just before the Star Phantoms had finally broken the defensive barricade around Badab itself. Even as the Phantom drop-pods thundered down into the Palace of Thorns, Maetrus had known that Huron’s heart was black and filled with the taint of Chaos. At the same time, Neotera was fighting desperately to hold position in his battle-barge, engaged in the endgame of the war against the Astartes coalition that had turned on Commander Huron’s Astral Claws. Neotera had watched Maetrus break formation and turn the guns of his cruiser, Tortured Soul, against the ships in the collapsing defences of the Astral Claws. Maetrus had turned his fire against his own allies, breaking the Mantis Warrior formation in two by joining his guns with those of the Star Phantoms and breaking open a corridor for their drop-pods. And Neotera had only been able to bellow his disbelief at this insubordination and treachery – he had not seen the truth even then. In the heat of the battle, Maetrus had offered no explanation but had simply said that he ‘trusted that Master Neotera would do the same.’ Finally, when Lord Huron’s own cruiser punched out of the atmosphere and cut through the Exorcists’ blockade, Neotera had watched with slowly dawning understanding as Maetrus threw the Tortured Soul into pursuit and charged into the Maelstrom with guns blazing in the tyrant’s wake. It was then, and only then, that Neotera understood what he had done. The horror had been beyond his capacity to comprehend, as though the galaxy had suddenly collapsed around him, leaving him standing alone and desolate in the ruins. He had fallen to his knees and gazed up into the heavens to see the constant, brilliant light of the Emperor, but he had seen only darkness.

The exit-ramp crashed down to the ground, kicking up a great cloud of dust from the moon’s surface. As the mist of dirt billowed around him, Shaidan stood on the ramp and scanned the scene, his doubled-bladed Mantis Staff held vertically in one hand by his side. He had not been back to this place since the forging of his staff in the hidden and half-forgotten furnaces of the moon’s core. But this was not the return he had expected.

Beyond the rim of the crater that provided cover for his Thunderhawk, Shaidan could see flashes and streaks of bolter fire and energy discharges. Explosions shuddered through the shifting dust, making the ground ripple like a grey, liquid desert. Giant plumes of powder erupted into the thin atmosphere, obscuring the stars, marking impacts over the tightly arcing horizon. Banks of Space Marines were dug into cover in improvised bunkers to the right, forming a steadfast siege of the obscured Astartes facility in the cave at the foot of the mountain to the left. Above the trenches in the plain, standards of quartered blue and bone shook erratically in the airless atmosphere as the ground trembled beneath them. Icons of the Novamarines’ twelve-pointed star were clear to see, proudly and defiantly planted on this husk of a moon orbiting Badab Prime.

As his gunship had descended towards the moon, Shaidan had quickly identified the heavily camouflaged entrance to the cave, which had long ago been blown into one of the volcanoes that peppered the surface of the perpetually dark side of the moon. Despite the efforts of the Astral Claws to keep the location of their base hidden, Shaidan’s keen eyes could detect the dull red light and the constant wisps of heat that seeped out of the cave mouth. The tunnels ran straight through to a lattice of magma chambers, from which the base and the mine beneath it had drawn its power for centuries, and then down into the bowels of the moon and the now-abandoned mines. The Mantis Librarian could remember the labyrinth of red-shadowed passageways from all those years before. And now a barrage of fire hailed in and out of the cave mouth, transforming it into a vision of a flame-breathing dragon emerging from the ancient and fiery depths, lighting the entrance to the secret base like a beacon.

Three squads of Mantis Warriors charged out of the Thunderhawk, filing past Shaidan on either side and fanning out to make a line along the lip of the crater. As Shaidan himself stepped off the ramp into the wake of the Space Marines, the engines of the Thunderhawk roared and the gunship pivoted as it rose out of the crater, bringing its main guns around to cover the Mantis Warriors. Great gouts of fire erupted from the Thunderhawk’s lascannons and heavy bolters, spraying the ground around the dug-in formations of the siege forces of the Novamarines, forcing them into cover for just long enough for the Mantis Warriors to crest the crater and begin their charge.

As Shaidan clambered over the lip of the crater, with threads of bolter fire searing over his head, he saw the Mantis Warriors already braced into formation. They had come to this little moon for a rendezvous with a detachment of Astral Claw allies, who had assured them that Badab Prime was being virtually ignored by the coalition arrayed against them. Back on the Tortured Soul, Captain Maetrus had been characteristically suspicious and had dispatched Shaidan with three heavily armed squads; they would not be caught unaware because of the naïveté or over-confidence of their allies.

For a moment, Shaidan watched the Devastator squad brace themselves in the low gravity for heavy fire from their missile launchers and plasma cannons, throwing force into the mix of shells and las-fire from the Thunderhawk and rendering the makeshift barricades of the Novamarines into banks of flame and raw energy. As the torrent of fury pounded the enemy line, the two Mantis assault squads blasted off the ground, spilling flame from their jump packs as they screeched over the lunar surface, spluttering staccatos of bolter fire and hurling grenades over the barricades into the trenches beyond. In the thin atmosphere, the assault squads seemed to flash with unnatural speed, and they were over the battered siege line in an instant.

But something was wrong. The attack of the Mantis Warriors had been smooth and by the book; they had hit the formation of Novamarines with sudden and overwhelming force, and they might have expected to be mopping up the fringes of the skirmish by now. Instead, there was an eerie quiet in the theatre as the assault squads hovered over the barricades, their bolt pistols silent and their chainswords still holstered.

From his position on the edge of the landing crater, Shaidan could see Sergeant Treomar of the first assault squad drop out of the sky into the unseen trench. A few seconds later, the sergeant reappeared above the barricade, hovering easily, and turned to face Shaidan. The vox-unit in his ear hissed.

‘Librarian Shaidan. The trench is deserted. The treacherous Novamarines have fled.’

Shaidan turned on his heel, immediately realising what had happened. ‘The mines! This moon is riddled with tunnels just under the surface; they’ve dropped into the mines!’

Even as he spoke, he saw a great plume of moon dust erupt into the sky from the crater behind him, directly beneath the low-hovering Thunderhawk. A hole opened suddenly in the ground and a squad of Novamarines stormed out, their bolt pistols coughing and their chainswords brandished. As Shaidan spun his force staff and vaulted down into the crater to check their advance, he saw a team of Novamarines, carrying missile launchers, emerging behind the vanguard. Behind them, labouring through the dust, came the trundling weight of a Thunderfire cannon and the elaborate profile of a Techmarine in its wake. Despite himself, Shaidan found himself admiring the execution of the Novamarines’ plan.

With just a few strides and one low-grav leap, Shaidan was down amongst the Novamarines. Immediately his Mantis Staff ignited with coruscating force as the Librarian spun it in a smooth arc around him, slicing one of its twin blades through the abdomen of one Space Marine while punching a burst of lightning from his other hand into the helmet of another. The two Novamarines recoiled under the assault, their bodies suddenly sagging as they tumbled backwards in the faint gravity, crashing into their battle-brothers, who brushed them aside and took their place between the Librarian and the emerging Devastator squad.

Meanwhile, the Mantis assault squads roared into view over the edge of the crater, charging back from the abandoned barricades in the plain. They opened fire with their bolt pistols but were unwilling to throw grenades while Shaidan remained engaged. But the Novamarines had moved with great efficiency. The Thunderfire cannon was firmly planted on its tracks and its quad-barrels were already fully adjusted, angled down into the curving walls of the crater. There was a sudden and abortive blaze from the barrels and then silence; for a moment it seemed that the cannon had misfired. But then the ground convulsed and shuddered, as though the moon were suddenly wracked with agony, and a huge subterranean detonation shattered the side of the crater and the landscape beyond. The lip of the crater crumpled and collapsed beneath the hovering figures of the assault squads. Great cracks ripped into the lunar surface around the Mantis Devastator squad in the plain, swallowing three Space Marines whole, as clouds of dust were ejected into the atmosphere and jets of lava pulsed up from the ruptured magma chambers beneath the volcanic region.

Under cover of the tremor shells, lines of missiles streamed out of the Novamarine launchers and punched into the underbelly of the Mantis Thunderhawk as it banked and pitched in an attempt to get clear of the crater. The missiles punched relentlessly into the gunship’s armour, one after another slamming into the same spot beneath the engine block. The armour was not designed for such extreme, close-range punishment and Shaidan could actually see the crack open in the adamantium just before the next flurry of rockets split the armoured panel away and crashed into the engine.

For a long, agonising second, the Thunderhawk shook and started to pitch. Tendrils of smoke escaped from the stern and intensifying flickers of flame started to lick out from between the cracking armoured panels. Then the gunship pitched abruptly and rolled sharply to the side; it lost its altitude in less than a second and crunched into the lunar surface just beyond the crater, smashing down next to the Mantis Devastators. The impact shook the already unstable ground, and the landscape convulsed. After a fraction of a second, the downed Thunderhawk shifted and seemed to settle, but then the ground beneath it collapsed and it fell a hundred metres down into roiling lava streams below, bringing half of the remaining Devastators with it. As it sunk into the pyroclastic flow, the heat finally detonated the engine core, and the Thunderhawk shattered into an explosive ball of fire.

From the bridge of the Tortured Soul the atmosphere of Badab seemed to be on fire. The planet blazed like a small star as the oxygen in the ozone layer raged with flame. Captain Maetrus watched the ships that vied for superiority in different levels of orbit. His own cruiser was caught in between two banks of blockades: the defences of the Astral Claws in low orbit, barely above the thermosphere and supported by volleys from ground-based artillery on the planet below, and the siege line of the Exorcists that sought to cut Badab off from the rest of the segmentum. The two massive bulks of tonnage unleashed constant broadsides across the intervening space, lacing the fire-tainted darkness with searing lines of lance-fire and torpedo trails. Rapid strike vessels and destroyers darted through the theatre, manoeuvring around each other and attempting to approach enemy cruisers closely enough to launch boarding actions.

The 1st Company led the reserve companies in the defence of the home world, where battle with the Novamarines and Howling Griffons had been joined. Meanwhile, about half of the dwindling Mantis Warrior fleet had been pulled into the last-ditch defence of Badab, the final stronghold of the rebellion and the seat of Lord Lufgt Huron, Master of the Astral Claws and most loyal servant of the Emperor. The 2nd Company, as usual, was in the vanguard, engaged where the fighting was most fierce. The Tortured Soul had been in almost constant battle for the last eight years – Maetrus had been on the bridge when they had captured the Rapturous Flame from the Fire Hawks and plunged the Mantis Warriors into war all those years before. But not even this ancient and venerable vessel could withstand the kind of hammering that it was receiving now. The ship’s great spirit remained unbroken and determined, but its systems were gradually collapsing under the relentless strain. The decks shuddered with impacts and the halls echoed with bootfalls as servitors and Space Marines strove to control damage and effect repairs. Whole sections of some decks were constantly and irrevocably ablaze, while others had been torn open to the absolute cold of space.

Over the years of battle, most of the ship’s components had been cycled through a system of redundancy to ensure that it was always fully functional and able to withstand even the most formidable assault, but now there was nothing left in reserve. A serious hit on the control systems, life support, or even the engine block would leave the glorious ship all but dead.

A new warning light pulsed on the control deck and a siren sounded, unheard amidst the other alerts and noise. Maetrus flicked his eyes away from the fiery planet on the viewscreen and noted the warning. They were being boarded. With the number of gaping holes in the hull, it had only been a matter of time before one of the Exorcist or Star Phantom ships had found a breach through which to deploy a boarding party.

‘Sergeant,’ muttered Maetrus almost inaudibly, as though the words didn’t really need to be spoken, ‘take two squads down to the breach and repel boarders. When Librarian Shaidan returns from Badab Prime I’ll send him to support you. Now go.’

Sergeant Audin’s helmet tilted slightly, indicating his comprehension; then he turned swiftly and marched out of the bridge. As the door slid open a thin gust of smoke and the smell of charred metal wisped onto the deck.

Maetrus turned his attention back to the viewscreen. A formation of frigates was manoeuvring into an intricate assault pattern around the Piercing Nova, one of the Astral Claws’ strike cruisers. The Nova was ill-equipped as part of a defensive blockade and its crew could hardly be accustomed to repelling this kind of battering – Astartes strike cruisers were designed to seize planets, not to hold them. But the Astral Claws had no choice as Badab’s planetary defences were gradually being hammered into the ground by the bombardment canons of the besieging coalition.

The battle for Badab was all but over; it was just a matter of time now. There were no supplies or reinforcements coming through the Exorcists’ blockade: the Executioners had basically abandoned their posts and fled back to their home world in an attempt to hold it against the vengeance of the Imperium, and the will of the Lamenters had been crushed in an ambush by the Minotaurs nearly four years earlier – they had done the unthinkable and surrendered. The Axis of Badab was shattered; the Mantis Warriors were now Lord Huron’s only hope of survival, and Maetrus knew that this faint hope depended on his 2nd Company.

It was the kind of sight that an Adeptus Astartes might dream about. The heavens were full of war, with massive and terrible forces aligned against each other, and nothing but heroism and devotion lay between death and glory. An entire planet lay in ruins, its atmosphere a blazing inferno enwrapped in flaming clouds. In the mire was a desperate last stand, and spiralling around it was an overwhelming and malignant force bent on the destruction of a people, of a Chapter. Maetrus could see little hope of victory in the theatre before him, and he had no intention of seeking a retreat, even if he could somehow escape the immovable line of Exorcists that held the system in isolation. But his mind was no longer engaged in thoughts of victory or defeat. He had not entered this war believing that it could be won, but only believing that it should be fought. Sometimes honour was not about winning, but merely about dying the right way. For him, realised Maetrus, this war had always been about dying. It had been a long and blood-drenched pathway towards his death.

A great, stuttering explosion broke Maetrus’s reflection. One of the capital ships of the Star Phantom deployment convulsed and then blew apart, scattering debris and spinning shards of metal through the Astral Claws’ faltering line and into the atmosphere of Badab. It was the Spectre of Fear, the cruiser to which Maetrus had despatched his last squad of Mantis Religiosa. He had known that they would not return, but had also been certain that they would not die without glory. The death of a strike cruiser was no less of a testament than those devoted Space Marines deserved. The Religiosa had somehow managed to board the hobbled vessel and presumably fought their way to the engine core, where they had probably triggered a critical overload, staying to defend their sabotage until the engine finally blew. It would make no difference to the outcome of the battle.

‘Give me a dozen squads of those Space Marines, and I will give you victory in any battle,’ he muttered to himself, his eyes glittering with resigned admiration.

‘If we gave you a dozen squads of Religiosa, captain, the Mantis Warriors would quickly go extinct.’ The response from Shaidan was unexpected.

‘Then we must find a way of harnessing that power without losing the minds of our Space Marines to such unquestioning devotion, my friend. Imagine a Religiosa who returned. Shaidan, when did you return?’ asked Maetrus, finally turning on his heel at the unexpected sound of the Librarian’s voice.

‘This moment, captain. I bring news from Badab Prime.’ Shaidan had removed his psychic hood and his long black hair hung loosely over his shoulders. His face was lined with grime and blood, but his piercing green eyes seemed to look into Maetrus’s weary soul as he inclined his head to show his respects. He had never seen the captain’s spirit so morose.

‘I would prefer bad news,’ replied Maetrus. ‘The battle is on the brink of a spectacular finale, Shaidan. Good news may simply delay something glorious. Unless you have a miracle, give me bad news.’

‘My news may have no bearing on the outcome of the battle, captain. But I think you might call it bad news nonetheless.’

Maetrus considered the face of the Librarian before him, old beyond its years and aching with the wisdom of power. ‘You will tell me that Huron has surrendered?’ He laughed without humour. ‘And that he requests his allies to stand down?’

‘I bring no such message, captain. Rather, I bring a report.’ Shaidan’s friendly tone stiffened. ‘I rendezvoused with the squad of Astral Claws on a moon of Badab Prime, as you requested, captain. They were right that the Star Phantoms and the Exorcists are now so focused on breaking the defences of Huron’s home world that reaching the minor planet should have been relatively simple.’

‘Should have been?’

‘Yes, captain. You were also right to note that other forces are at work in this theatre. We met with some inconvenience due to a small contingent of Novamarines. They were… persistent.’

‘I think we should skip to the point, Shaidan,’ mocked Maetrus gently, inclining his head back towards the viewscreen and the raging battle it showed. He liked this Librarian, and saw in his careful manner the promise of high command one day. But not today. ‘There are some other things that require my attention today. And you are needed by Audin, who is repelling a boarding party even as we speak.’

Shaidan nodded, seeing the sad mixture of respect and resigned urgency in Maetrus’s face. ‘Lord Huron’s will is unbroken. He will fight until his Chapter is no more.’ Despite the need for rapidity, Shaidan paused to collect the correct words. ‘Yet the Astral Claws are no longer themselves, captain.’

‘No riddles, Librarian. This is not the time.’

‘Maetrus, I almost failed to recognise the squad that I had been sent to meet. In place of the proud colours of the Astral Claws, each Space Marine had painted over his armour in random ways, obscuring their Chapter insignia and even covering the Imperial aquila.’

‘These were renegades? Deserters?’

‘No captain, this was one of the elite squads employed by Huron as his palace guard. This was the squad that he entrusted to rendezvous with me.’

Maetrus stared. ‘What are you saying, Shaidan?’ There was anger in his voice; his lack of comprehension fuelled his frustration. ‘Has all discipline in the ranks collapsed? I cannot believe it.’

‘I cannot be sure, captain, but I believe that this is a new discipline. It seems that Huron has instructed his battle-brothers that the Siege of Badab is evidence that the Emperor has forsaken them at last. He claims that the Emperor’s gaze has been corrupted by the bureaucrats of the Imperium and that it can no longer differentiate between loyalty and tyranny. Rumours spread that Lord Huron had gouged the aquila from his shoulder, and vowed to continue his fight for truth for the Emperor, even if no longer in the Emperor’s name. The Space Marines related a rumour that Huron had insisted that since the Emperor could no longer recognise friend from foe, he would demonstrate his loyalty by ending his service to a muddled mind and by showing it the clarity that it has lost. This, he is supposed to have said, would be the ultimate and most selfless kind of service – risking his own damnation to bring the Emperor himself back into the light. Hearing this, it seems that units in the Astral Claws have desecrated their armour in similar – or not so similar – ways.’

Maetrus stared as his mind raced to process the information. Hearsay and stories were always rife during war, and this war had dragged on for a decade, pitting the Astral Claws against the corrupt and hypocritical Imperium of Man itself. He could understand that tensions would be incredibly high within that Chapter, but he had never heard of the will of a Chapter being broken so completely by battle fatigue or stress. For the sake of the Emperor, Space Marines were not mere Guardsmen! The Adeptus Astartes were built for perpetual war; this was their very reason for being. He could not believe that Huron or his Claws had broken. It was simply not possible. They should be relishing the prospect of their glorious and righteous deaths, not bleating about being forsaken.

Unless… hesitated Maetrus, unless Huron knows that he’s wrong.

As soon as the thought hit him, he felt the power of its truth. Huron is wrong. And he knows that he is wrong. He has deliberately misled us for his own self-serving ends. He has… Maetrus could hardly finish the thought. He has turned us against the Emperor! And we believed him… We were too credulous to see the truth – we wanted to help this Chapter, in whom we thought we saw something of ourselves, striving for perfection in a galaxy that misunderstood and feared us. We mistook them for us, and so lost ourselves forever. And Huron knew what he was taking from us. He knew, and he took our souls without even the decency to reveal his claws. Even the agents of Chaos have more honour than this kind of power-mongering and politicking; at least they have the decency to tempt you with the promise of supernatural power.

Suddenly it was all very clear and unambiguous, and Maetrus realised that this rebellion had never felt right to him. He had assumed that the sinking terror in his heart had simply been because of the way that the war was tearing the segmentum apart, but now he realised that the horror was more simple and direct: the rebellion was wrong.

‘Captain?’ asked Shaidan, watching Maetrus’s face gradually set into fury.

‘Librarian, you will assist with the repulsion of the boarding party. You should know, however, that if either you or Sergeant Audin wish to avert a mutiny, you will need to be back on the control deck in less than ten minutes to commit your own.’

‘You will inform Master Neotera before you act, captain?’ Shaidan’s question was formal and procedural, as though he were simply going through the motions. The observance of protocol calmed his spirit, which roared for action. His soul felt the perfect righteousness of Maetrus’s decision, in a way that it had not felt for a decade.

‘Of course.’ Maetrus’s gaze was level. His fury had settled into a fierce resolve.

‘Then we will return to receive further orders once the boarding party has been destroyed, captain.’ With that, Librarian Shaidan nodded curtly and turned to leave. Spinning his ornate, double-bladed force-staff in his hand he marched from the bridge without a backward glance.

‘Ruinus!’

An attentive Space Marine stepped forward from his position guarding the doors to the control deck.

‘Captain?’

‘You heard Librarian Shaidan’s report, sergeant?’

‘Yes, captain.’

‘You will understand that I need to get a message to the Chapter Master. I do not require a response, and there is no time to wait for one. I trust that you will transmit my communication in due time?’ Maetrus eyed him carefully.

‘Yes, captain. Of course.’ There was no flicker of doubt. Maetrus even thought he saw a flash of relief and pride, as though a painful and debilitating wound had suddenly been healed.

‘Inform Master Neotera that the Tortured Soul will be turning its guns against the Astral Claws imminently. Request no permission and ask no pardon, but please explain that I trust he would do the same in our position. Indeed, I trust he will do the same.’

Neotera turned away from Ruinus. ‘Sergeant Soron! Train the starboard weapons batteries onto the Piercing Nova and prepare the bombardment cannon to hit the planetary defences. We are going to make this into the right death if it is the last thing we do.’

As the Thunderhawk exploded, the ground in the crater began to crumble away. Shaidan strode forward over the faltering dust, pushing into the squad of Novamarines that clustered around their heavy weapons in the heart of the crater, trying to defend their retreat back down into the subterranean tunnels and mineshafts of the ageless moon. His Mantis Staff blazed with green, phosphorescent venom, reminiscent of the lethal aura of the Hottentota itself. He lashed and stabbed with the glorious weapon, pushing it through plates of blue and bone power armour in a fury of indignation, righteousness and vengeance. As he advanced through bolter fire and lashing chainswords, he muttered an ancient machine curse, spitting his thoughts towards the Thunderfire cannon just as it teetered clumsily back into the tunnel. It seemed to pause and twitch, as though it had been slighted by the insult. The Techmarine behind it snapped his head around as though struck. And then the cannon simply stopped, whining to a halt in the mouth of the Novamarines’ escape route.

As his assault squads dropped down into a semicircle around the far side of the crater, forming an enveloping firing line on the more stable ground of that bank, Shaidan took aim and launched his staff like an ethereal javelin, sending it searing through the remnants of the Novamarine squad and piercing into the great barrel of the Thunderfire cannon. There was a flash and the inaudible crackle of an unspeakable energy discharging, and then the cannon exploded, radiating superheated shrapnel and high-explosive shells like a giant scattergun. The remaining Novamarines took the full force of the detonation, and the Techmarine who had been tending to the cannon was all but incinerated in the blast. The escape tunnel, the Novamarines’ only path out of the crater, collapsed completely.

As the Novamarines finally fell under the disciplined volleys of bolter fire from the assault squads, Shaidan focused his thoughts for a moment of quickening and seemed to flash across the disintegrating crater in a blur of emerald light. A moment later, he was lifting his unblemished Mantis Staff out of the ruins of the cannon, and the next he was back across the crater before the last standing Novamarine.

The Mantis assault squads ceased fire and all eyes turned to Shaidan as he stood imperiously before the defeated foe. The Novamarine before him wore the insignia of a veteran sergeant, and his armour was scored with the evidence of countless battles. He stood with proud defiance before the Mantis Librarian, meeting his eerie, emerald gaze through the implacable shield of his helmet’s visor.

Shaidan inspected him, a faint psychic light flickering around the nodes in the hood that covered the back of his head. The Wars of Badab, the Liberation Wars as they were known to the righteous, had cost the Astartes so many lives. He had killed countless of the Adeptus himself, and he had seen so many of his sacred brethren fall. Yet he found it hard to believe that any of the Adeptus Astartes could take this lightly or find any joy in their victories. Every victory meant the loss of valuable gene-seed and each death was a cut in the flesh of the Emperor himself.

Yet, it was a consequence of the nature of the Astartes that battles rarely resulted in prisoners. It was not that Space Marines lacked mercy or compassion – indeed, the Mantis Warriors prided themselves on their compassionate natures – but rather they lacked the will to surrender. No matter what the odds or the chances of survival, a Space Marine found his very being in fighting. Without the fight, how could he demonstrate his devotion to duty, and without duty a Space Marine was nothing, perhaps worse. Compassion was for others; for the self there was nothing.

So, Shaidan inspected the last of the Novamarines on Badab Prime with interest, quite willing to accept his surrender, but fully prepared for the likelihood that this sergeant would still believe he could win some kind of victory, despite the dozen or so guns trained on him and the magnificent Librarian standing before him.

The Librarian gazed into the Space Marine’s eyes, seeing straight through the opaque visor of his helmet as though it weren’t even there. He saw no fear and no desperation. There was no frantic scheming for an escape. The gaze was level and calm, and the eyes shone with deepest sincerity. But there was also something else: this sergeant hated him. He was repulsed by the Mantis Warriors, as though they represented something horribly corrupt and disgusting. For a fraction of a second, Shaidan recoiled from the force of the hatred, shocked to see it in the eyes of one of the Astartes. Composing himself, the Librarian probed a little further, reaching through a null zone into the sergeant’s thoughts, where he found unending stories of the horrors and perversions perpetrated by the Astral Claws and their allies in this war. The sergeant felt that the Emperor was on his side.

Shaidan nodded to the sergeant, understanding his reasons, misguided by the lies of war as they may have been, and he turned his back on the Space Marine. In that instant, the Novamarine snatched his bolt pistol from its holster and squeezed a shell into the Librarian’s back.

But Shaidan was gone before the shell could impact. With the lightning speed of the quickening, the Librarian flashed out of sight. The first the sergeant knew of where Shaidan had gone was when he felt the burning cold of the twin-bladed Mantis Staff slice effortlessly through the back of his neck. Instinctively, the Novamarine tried to turn to face his foe. Even as the twin blades severed his spinal column he managed to twist the grip of his bolt pistol around and fire one last shot. As his head fell to the ground, the shell punched through his own armour and abdomen and cracked into Shaidan’s chest plate, where it stuck, lacking the power to break through another layer.

As the sergeant’s crimson life spilled into the grey lunar dust at his feet, Shaidan could feel his surprise and gratitude. The Novamarine had not expected such honour, and his death was sullied by his own sudden but deep-seated doubt. For his part, Shaidan mourned the fact that one of the Astartes could expect so little from the Mantis Warriors.

How has it come to this?

The vox-bead in his ear hissed suddenly. ‘Mantis Warrior. We have been expecting you.’

Shaidan looked up to the rim of the crater and saw a contingent of Space Marines assembling, silhouetted against the starry sky. He looked over to Sergeant Treomar on the wall of the crater, who nodded an acknowledgement and signalled that these were the Astral Claws they had been sent to meet. But his signal seemed hesitant, as though he were not immediately sure who the newcomers were.

‘It is good of you to join us, Astral Claw,’ replied Shaidan as he climbed towards his hosts. He wondered why the Claws had neither warned nor helped them, but it was not the way of the Mantis Warriors to complain or reprimand, and certainly not to suggest that they would have benefited from assistance in a battle that they had already won without it. ‘Your timing is impeccable, friend,’ the Librarian said sarcastically.

‘We have much to discuss, Librarian,’ came the voice again. ‘And time is short.’

As Shaidan climbed out of the crater he got his first clear look at the Space Marines of the Astral Claws. Despite himself, he stared at them with disbelief. They were arrayed before him in the great splendour of the ancient armour of the Adeptus Astartes, which glinted like multi-coloured jewels in the starlight. And yet there were too many colours. The splendid golds and blacks of the House of Huron, about which Maetrus had told him so much after his visit to the Palace of Thorns, were obscured and hidden, peeking furtively out from beneath gaudy daubs of colour, blacks and crude, bloody patterns of red. They were like the perverted progeny of Astartes and eldar Harlequins, if it were not heretical even to imagine such things. And even stranger, Shaidan could see that the Imperial aquila had been prised off the armour of some and obscured or desecrated on others.

He stood on the very brink of the collapsing crater, looking between the detachment of bizarre Astral Claws and the honourable corpses of the Novamarines that littered the dissipating lunar dust. He could feel Sergeant Treomar and the assault squads shifting uneasily, as though unsure about the next move. They were tense and ready for anything.

‘Yes, time is short, friend,’ said Shaidan at last, ‘and I can see that you must have a great deal to report to us. First, you will permit us to reclaim the gene-seed of our fallen brethren, then we will talk.’ He nodded over towards the mouth of the cave that held the base they had been trying to reach, and he winced when he saw that the double-headed eagle carved into the rock above the cave had been decapitated. ‘We will also thank you if you can spare a Thunderhawk or other transport for our voyage back to the fleet. I’m sure Captain Maetrus and the Chapter Master will be eager to hear my report.’

‘Master Neotera, this council need hide nothing from you, and we should tell you that we are fully aware of the events of the war that you unleashed on this sector. You need not trouble yourself to tell us the details of how you finally surrendered before the gathered might of the Novamarines, the Exorcists and Star Phantoms after the Lamenters had crumbled against the Minotaurs, how you routed the Marines Errant on Kalibus IV, how you miraculously escaped the formations of the Salamanders at the Siege of Corusil, or even how you managed to capture the Rapturous Flame from the Fire Hawks back in 904. We do not need this information from you – it is already a matter of record. The gaps, such as they are, can be filled in by any number of observers. We do not ask for a confession of these acts, for they are undeniable. The blood has been spilled, the Space Marines have been slaughtered, and whole planets have been ravaged. All at your command. We do not seek denials or descriptions.

‘What we cannot judge is why. What we require of you is explanation. What did you seek to achieve? Why would you desert the light of the Emperor and forge an allegiance with this Tyrant of Badab? And what could have driven you to launch those first attacks against the Fire Hawks, knowing that such acts would drag the Legions into the kind of war unknown since the Heresy itself? Even Huron himself dared not strike at his fellow Space Marines – it was only with you that the petty insurgency became a war. How were you convinced to turn away from the honour and devotion of the Astartes? What kind of promises could buy the soul of Khoisan Neotera, Chapter Master of the Mantis Warriors and guardian of the realms of Mordriana and Ootheca?’

What did the cowardly shape-changer offer you, Mantis? Did he promise you a seat at the right hand of a tyrant or liberty from the discipline of the Adeptus? Did he taunt you with the artefacts of his xenos allies, or tempt you with the forbidden knowledge of his corrupted brethren? How did he turn your will against the father of us all, and twist your spirit into treachery? Or would you have us believe that he did nothing… that you were already lost, and that you found a kindred spirit in this Blackheart? Is the great legacy of the Mantis Warriors nothing but an illusion, a cover to hide your own tainted gene-seed? Have you been hiding like cowards for a thousand years, living in pretence and hypocrisy and treating us all like fools? Are you to be damned as well as condemned, Mantis Lord?

‘You must explain, Neotera. We are not beyond mercy here.’ The shadow-veiled words were not without kindness.

Do you not know me at all? The thoughts stayed inside his head. Of course you do not know me. I cannot even recognise myself. I have no answers to your questions, and I would offer none even if they burned like firebrands in my mind. We are beyond these words and reasons now. Deeds are done; we must be measured by them just as we must be held to account for them. How can you taunt me with the threat of mercy? Do you think I want your mercy or your forgiveness? Do you think I can go on knowing what I have done, what I have allowed myself to do? Your mercy mocks me and offends yourselves; do not belittle us all with this kind of talk. I am undeserving of your kindness, and you should know even the Emperor in His infinite wisdom would offer me nothing less than condemnation. In the fall, there is only flame and sword. Speak your judgement and rid yourselves of me.

‘I seek no mercy.’ Barely more than a breath, he wasn’t sure if he had spoken the words out loud, yet they wisped around the hall like the scent of poison.

Ah, the silent Mantis speaks after all. Venom was laced through the disembodied thoughts; they ridiculed him, as if certain that he would be broken. We just offer you a little selfish hope and your resolve shatters. Mercy and treachery are such an exquisite pair. Did Huron offer you mercy? Did you hear the whispered echoes of Horus himself, offering to bring you back into his fold? Was this all it took, feeble-minded insect? Can your soul be bought for a little mercy?

I seek no mercy, he repeated in his mind, clenching his jaw in the agony of self-betrayal. He had not meant to speak, but his resolve was so powerful and consuming that it had vocalised almost by itself. I seek no mercy – the thoughts spiralled around inside his head like a mantra, and just once in three days had they leaked out into the air. It was as though he were becoming the words; he was giving them physical meaning through the remains of his life.

Yet see how easily even those four brief words could be twisted and contorted. Their purity was sullied and despoiled as soon as they left his mouth. Before they had even reached the ears of his judges, their psychic resonance had already been distorted by the noxious mind of the nameless Librarian who wanted nothing more than for the Mantis Warriors to fall into the abyss, to leave them dishonoured and desecrated by the judgement of history. There was genuine hatred in that mind, and it oozed toxically into Neotera’s head. The Chapter Master could feel a hunger for profit and spoils in those psychic intrusions, and he realised that not all of his judges were here for vengeance, justice, or knowledge; some were in pursuit of ships and worlds.

‘So you are unrepentant, Neotera?’

Even the voices of reason misunderstood him. How could they find him unrepentant when his very being screamed in torment at his deeds? If only he could take back those four simple words and let his devoted silence remain unbroken. But the words could not be revoked, no more than the actions that had brought him to this place. Words could not explain what he had done, and any words that he uttered would only pervert even further the faith that remained in his heart; they would be twisted and tortured until they no longer resembled themselves and he could not see truth from lies. He knew when his choices had been made, and it was becoming clear to him that he had been wrong for many years. But he knew – deep in his soul he knew – that his intentions had been pure.

Intentions are nothing. A servant is judged by his deeds. I seek no mercy. I offer no words and no excuses. I stand ready to bear the unendurable.

The Palace of Thorns was everything that they had been led to expect. It was the ostentatious seat of power on the home world of a proud Space Marine Chapter, full of the pomp and regalia of military exploits and glory. Great statues towered over the gates and reached their arms into arches over vaulted ceilings. Ornate frescoes filled the walls, depicting the most awesome and legendary victories of the Astral Claws: the Purification of the Badab system itself, the Scouring of Tesline, and the Reclamation of Mundus IV. The Chapter Master’s honour guard stood sentinel in the corridors and halls, resplendent in their radiant gold and black striped ceremonial armour, like majestic tigers surveying their realms. And the Imperial aquila, the universal sign of devotion and loyalty to the Emperor, held pride of place on each of the grand spires that pushed up towards the heavens.

The contingent of Mantis Warriors was unfazed by the grandeur as they swept through the corridors on their way to the throne room. Their own fortress monastery on Ootheca was no less glorious, and even the jungle palace of Mordriana III could inspire awe. However, their delegation to Badab was understated. Four squads of Space Marines acted as honour guards for a command squad of unusual austerity and gravity: the Chapter Master himself strode through the hallways of the Palace of Thorns. His guards shone in emerald battle armour, polished to the point of ceremonial splendour, yet they moved with the kind of focused caution that spoke of veiled distrust. As a special token of good faith, Lord Huron had permitted them to enter his palace fully armed; and not quite willing to return the confidence, the Mantis Warriors had taken full advantage of his offer. On the landing field beyond the gates, a group of deep green Mantis Thunderhawks held heavy reinforcements.

On their approach to the Badab system, the Mantis Warriors had seen for themselves the evidence of Huron’s recent activities. They had heard the rumours and reports, but seeing the evidence gave the official accounts of insurgency and revolt more power and resonance. The adjoining space-lanes were littered with debris and the ruined masses of raided freighters, damaged beyond salvage or repair. Before they had agreed on the rendezvous on Badab, Huron had warned them what they might see and how it might appear to them. He had not sought to deny anything, but had invited the Mantis Warriors to bear witness to the facts.

He had explained that many of the apparently civilian ships had been unmarked, covert Imperial gunships, sent to spy on the Badab system. He claimed that he had discovered that such ships were normal parts of all mercantile convoys to Adeptus Astartes controlled systems, and he had challenged them to forcefully inspect the shipping lanes around their own system of Ootheca if they doubted him. He argued calmly that there were powerful factions in the Imperium that hated and distrusted the Astartes, jealous of their intimacy with the spirit of the Emperor and their resemblance of his body. These factions were now in the ascendant at the Terra-bound end of Segmentum Ultima, where fear of the Maelstrom mixed with distrust of the glory of the Astartes to produce officiousness and insidious suspicion. Huron had told Master Neotera that the Mantis Warriors were also being watched.

As the Venomous Blade had cut its way into the outskirts of the Badab system, Neotera had seen the torn prow of an Imperial light cruiser tumbling through the wreckage of a group of freighters. In amongst the debris, he could see the twisted remains of weapons batteries and the charred icon of the aquila. It seemed that Huron was telling the truth about the presence of the Imperium’s eyes in this sector.

On the edge of the star-system, the Blade had registered a wide spread of signals on its long-range scanners. A fleet of battleships was assembling in the interstellar space between Badab and Rigant. Most of the signatures were too indistinct to be accurately discerned, but those at the vanguard had the solid and menacing echo of Space Marine strike cruisers and frigates. The unusual shape of the Rapturous Flame, the legendary Fire Hawks strike cruiser that had survived the destruction of the Chapter’s home world of Zhoros more than five millennia before, was at the heart, as the formation slowly shifted and manoeuvred. They were less than a warp-jump away, but probably several days under normal power. They were waiting for something, and their presence suggested that their attention was fixed on Badab. Perhaps Huron’s paranoia was not without substance? Would the Imperium really send Space Marines against their own again? What kind of Chapter would heed such a call?

In one of his first communiqués, before the trouble had exploded into bloodshed in the region of Sfantu, Huron had asked Neotera about the frequency with which the Mechanicus demanded a sample of Mantis Warrior gene-seed. At first, Neotera had not understood why another Chapter would request such information; it had seemed disrespectful to the point of being insulting. He had been suspicious of Huron’s motives, and then fearful that rumours about the Mantis Legion were spreading to neighbouring systems. Captain Maetrus of the 2nd Company, the Prophet Captain as he was known, had cautioned many times about the suspicions that could be raised about the Chapter if the mental state of the Mantis Religiosa were to be misunderstood as some kind of genetic anomaly. Maetrus was especially concerned that the condition, which sometimes enhanced a Space Marine’s reflexes to such an extent that they seemed to develop mild precognitive abilities, might appear to represent the spontaneous onset of psychic tendencies. Given the proximity of the Mantis Warriors’ realm to the Maelstrom and the conditions of constant internecine war on some of its core systems, such as Mordriana, it was not beyond imagination that the Mechanicus would seek to police their gene-seed even more vigorously than that of other Chapters. Yet Maetrus was adamant that the condition was a normal state of mind, and was determined to develop a training programme that would enable all Mantis Warriors to harness this natural ability.

In any case, Neotera had not been willing to share information about the frequency contact from the Mechanicus until Huron had openly admitted that he had made a decision not to submit the gene-seed of the Astral Claws for inspection any more. He had spoken passionately about the ways in which the Mechanicus had lost their legitimacy when they had reinterpreted themselves as a form of genetic police, monitoring the Astartes and holding over them the threat of disestablishment should they fail to meet some arbitrary criteria. Huron had called this oppression. He had labelled it as an evil against the spirit of the Emperor – nobody had ever monitored the Emperor’s genetic make-up to try and restrain his development. The Imperium needed the free development of the Astartes, just as it had once needed the free development of the Emperor to give it form, whether it was willing to admit this or not.

Even worse, Huron had attempted to convince Neotera that there were corrupt Space Marine Chapters that knew of this agenda, and which sought to exploit it for their own selfish advancement. He worried that the Imperium was not above turning these lackey Space Marines against their fellow Adeptus Astartes, turning one Chapter against another in a horrible civil war in order to prevent the truth being realised. With barely disguised disgust, Huron had named the Ultramarines and the Imperial Fists, with their intimate ties to the Administratum, as the most likely to turn against the most free-thinking Chapters – those that held the true legacy of the Emperor in their genes.

Neotera had listened to Huron with a mixture of horror and empathy. His words were not without truth – the Mantis Warriors knew the angst and insecurity of dark secrets, like many other Chapters – but he did not dare to trust them. However, the presence of the Fire Hawks just beyond the Badab system seemed to confirm Huron’s suspicions.

And now, as the heavy, illuminated doors to the throne room pushed slowly open, Neotera stood before Lufgt Huron himself for the first time. The Chapter Master sat on the far side of the hall, raised on a dais and seated in the most elaborate throne Neotera had ever seen. Fanned out behind him were the twelve Space Marines that comprised his personal guard, each holding their bolters formally across their chest-plates. Along each side of the long room, arrayed as though for inspection, were twin lines of Space Marines in full battle armour. The chamber was brilliant with gold and black.

Neotera paused in the doorway, genuinely admiring the awesome scene. His pause slowly lengthened into a hesitation as he calculated the mass of firepower that was assembled before him and weighed it against the reports of Huron’s insurrection. Despite the evidence en route to the planet, Neotera was not quite convinced that he could trust this Huron, the alleged Tyrant of Badab. But behind him were assembled the finest thirty Mantis Warriors from the 1st and 2nd Companies, veterans and heroes all, and Neotera knew that they would not be cowed by this attempt at intimidation. However, he also realised that this display of power effectively nullified any ‘trust’ that Huron had claimed to show by permitting them to enter his palace armed for battle.

‘Chapter Master Khoisan Neotera, Master of the Mantis Warriors and guardian of the realms of Mordriana and Ootheca, I bid you welcome to my hall.’ Huron rose as he spoke, his formal words echoing slightly in the high room, and started down the steps of the podium, as though to meet Neotera on the level floor. ‘I am grateful that you made the journey. Communications are insecure, and it is no longer easy for me to travel far out of this system, as you will appreciate.’

‘Master Huron,’ acknowledged Neotera with less exaltation, ‘your reception honours us.’ He strode across the marbled floor while the rest of the Mantis Warriors fell into line behind him.

‘We have much to discuss, Khoisan,’ began Huron as they faced each other and bowed slightly, his eyes burning with a deep and hidden light. ‘Grave matters of concern for the whole Imperium. The salvation of our brother Astartes rests in our hands – we are the Emperor’s last hope. Can I count on you, brother?’

Neotera was no longer sure how much time had passed. He was beginning to feel the effects of sleep deprivation; his head felt heavier than usual, as though he were concussed, and his thoughts moved like wraiths through smoke. He was not tired, but over the years he had learned to recognise the slight hazing of his mind as the activity of his catalepsean node as it shifted his fatigued consciousness around his brain to keep him functioning without sleep. Judging by the mist that had settled over his thoughts, like the dust that was gathering on the shoulders of his armour, he had been standing on the aquila for nearly seven days. He had not moved in that time, and he could only recall speaking four ill-judged words. His mind was full of the questions and accusations of the council of judges – their persistent and powerful siege of his psyche had gradually permeated his staunch resolve, and he could feel a dizziness caused by the internalisation of his interrogators’ combination of malice and mercy. But he knew that he could not break, not again.

The questions had thrown his thoughts back into reflection, and he had lost himself in the past for a while. But for how long? And how many of his thoughts could the judges see? Were they simply prodding his mind into recollection and then watching his thoughts betray him? There were certainly a number of powerful Librarians in the shadows amongst the faceless judges, but Neotera was not attuned enough to know exactly what might be the dimensions of their powers. Perhaps his resolve not to speak was serving no purpose after all. Perhaps the council could recover the answers it sought without the crassness of language. But then why ask the questions? Why go through the motions of a trial if they could simply empty his brain and sift through his memories themselves?

Unless it was a test. They wanted to see what he would say, whether he would crack, how he would attempt to justify himself, and then measure his words against the inner voice of his soul. Did he believe his own words? Was there deceit in his heart? Did he seek to excuse himself or to blame others? Was there any honour left in him, even after all the horrors he had perpetrated on the galaxy, even after he had violated his most sacrosanct oaths of loyalty?

But he had said nothing. Just those four words: I seek no mercy. He had not tried to explain. Although, he knew, his mind had been racing constantly, questing for answers to the questions they posed, for the questions were his own as well: how had it come to this? Did they have the answers? Had they managed to discern the truth from his fevered reflections? Could they explain it to him? He needed to know as much as they did. More. For it was his soul that was falling into the inferno, not theirs.

If they could see into his mind, he should be told. He needed to know. He deserved to know. His soul screamed for the knowledge.

How did it come to this? I deserve to know. The thoughts hissed out, like gas from a cracked tank.

You deserve nothing, Mantis Lord.

The bitter thoughts mocked his indignation and seeped with disgust. But he knew that they were right: he deserved nothing. His protests, although intended only for his own thoughts and not for the minds of the council, were unworthy of him and the Librarian’s derision was fully justified.

Once again, the pain of self-betrayal wracked his soul, vying with the bottomless horror of his treachery against all that he held to be true and just. It was unbearable, yet he endured. He wasn’t even sure that he recognised himself anymore. How had it come to this? How had he come to this?

A heavy grinding sound told him that the main doors to the hall were sliding open. Keeping his eyes directly ahead, he traced the movement of footfalls as they fanned out into the shadows of the vaulted ceiling around the edge of the chamber. As far as he was aware, this was the first time that the door had opened and anyone had entered or left since the hearing began. But, he realised, he could not even be sure of this petty little fact – he had lost faith in the integrity of his mind. Was he actually being driven mad? Had he been mad from the start? Had he ever truly been loyal to the Emperor?

‘Khoisan Neotera, Chapter Master of the Mantis Warriors and guardian of the realms of Mordriana and Ootheca, this council finds you guilty of the most terrible crimes imaginable to the Imperium of Man.’ The voice, deep and raw and unused to diplomacy, washed over Neotera like a dark tide. The horror of its words soothed him like a balm: he was guilty; he would not be forgiven. The relief was real and almost physical.

‘You have plotted against the light of the Emperor Himself. You have spilt the blood of His most loyal servants, and you have brought Chaos into the very heart of our Empire. You have offered no defence of your actions, no explanations of your deeds, and you have asked for no leniency. It was the intention of this council that you should be executed for your crimes, and that your gene-seed should be cast into the void. In addition, we intended to dismantle the Mantis Legion, to strip your Space Marines of their armour and weapons, to quarantine your home world of Ootheca, and to condemn the remaining Mantis Warriors to live as servitors, rebuilding the worlds that they have destroyed.’

The voice paused, and Neotera could feel a dozen pairs of eyes studying him. He did not flinch or even blink. He bit down on his jaw and focused his mind on the words: he needed to be clear-headed to hear the verdict and he realised that there was more to come. There was a sudden and sinking panic that the judge would revoke his condemnation, and then a shock that he was feeling panic for the first time in his life, since the Blood Trials on Ootheca when he was first inducted into the Mantis Warriors. What had become of him? Had his treachery really pushed him into madness?

We will take Ootheca, insect lord. Your kind will never pollute its forests again. Now it is mine. The unidentified thoughts were faint and torn, as though shredded by malice. Even in his fevered state, Neotera could sense the presence of a self-serving spite once again.

‘And yet, Khoisan, there are those on this council who do not believe that your silence shows a lack of repentance. Some who do not find your bearing arrogant. Some, indeed, who believe that your egregious deeds were not motivated by hatred or self-interest, but rather that you were misled by the cunning of others.’

The words seemed like flames. What were they saying? Were they trying to find a way to save him after all? Did they really retain the faith in him that he had even lost in himself? They had used his personal name – nobody had called him Khoisan for over a hundred years. Did they seek to show affection to him?

I am a Mantis Warrior. I need no love from you. I seek no mercy. The thoughts whispered desperately through his mind.

‘Nonetheless, Chapter Master,’ came another voice, ‘your actions speak eloquently and terribly for themselves. In the end, your intentions do not concern us, except in so far as they help us to understand how one such as you might be turned so completely from the light. And you have offered us no help in that regard.’

I seek no mercy.

‘Mantis Master,’ came yet another voice, the female voice of an inquisitor or Sister Sororitas, ‘it is the opinion of this council that the Mantis Warriors are not beyond salvation – that they followed dutifully and loyally the commands of their Master, and that their Master was himself convinced that his commands were in accord with the will of the Emperor. The Chapter shall be excommunicated for one hundred years, during which time we expect that they will demonstrate penitence and loyalty enough to be brought back into the sight of the Emperor. As for Ootheca, Mantis Lord, it will never again give birth to your kind – it is yours no longer. The rights of the Mantis Warriors to that place are forfeit forever; should they survive their penitence, they must begin again elsewhere. They must seek rebirth as well as redemption.’

It is mine.

Neotera’s gaze did not waver and he said nothing. An image of the great fortress monastery of Ootheca flickered through his mind, engulfed in an inferno of flames as the emerald banners of the Mantis Legion turned to cinders and blew away in the wind. The loss of his home world tortured his soul, piercing to the very foundation of his almost-forgotten humanity. Yet it was not a terminal end; he could see through the conflagration of horror to the tiniest glimmer of hope that survived the flames. Despite himself, the redemption of his loyal battle-brothers brought him profound relief and happiness. Barely perceptibly, a single tear trickled slowly over the scar on his cheek.

I seek no mercy. For myself, nothing. I seek no mercy. Already this is too much.

But then there is you, Mantis. Even if you were deluded and confused, like a civilian fool being tempted into Chaos with promises of riches, of power, or of fame, then you are little more than a despicable excuse for an Astartes, with a pathetic will and a clouded mind. Your credulity offends the Emperor. His light is not ambiguous or unclear – it is brilliant, pristine and untarnished by doubts or interpretations. Even if you are not evil by intent, your naïveté provides a space for it to grow. This is worse: you make others do evil unknowingly. Your leadership is what dragged your brothers into this war and turned them against themselves. In the end, even the devoted Captain Maetrus mutinied against you.

Consider this, Mantis Lord, your judgement tore your entire Chapter from the fold. You mutinied against the Emperor Himself – this is more than mutiny, it is heresy. And then your most celebrated captain mutinied against you. Civil wars within civil wars. How should we interpret these actions? Should we see Maetrus as evidence that there is yet integrity in your Chapter, despite his disappearance? Or should we conclude that credulity is a flaw in the gene-seed of the Mantis Warriors as a whole? Are you genetically untrustworthy, Mantis? Do you have any place in the Imperium of Man? Can the Emperor gaze on you with anything other than pity, derision, or disgust?

‘You will not be executed, Master Neotera.’ The voice seemed somehow familiar, but Neotera’s mind was reeling with such nausea after the psychic charges that he could not call a name to mind. And now the vocalised words struck horror into his heart. A terrible despair sank upon him, as though a world had fallen onto his shoulders. Were they going to offer him mercy?

‘You will be stripped of your armour and imprisoned in the Penitentiacon. There you will live out your life in darkness and isolation. You will have no distractions from your own conscience, and you will find the truth of your treachery or you will die without ever understanding it.’

Neotera’s mind staggered. The world fell onto his shoulders and crushed him through the aquila at his feet. His constant and resolute gaze began to swim, before he pulled his will together though sheer self-discipline and screaming anguish. He gritted his teeth against the horror of disbelief: he would not be executed for his deeds, but how could he go on living like this?

You asked for no mercy. We offer you none.

About The Author

C S Goto has published short fiction in Inferno! and elsewhere. His work for the Black Library includes the Warhammer 40,000 Dawn of War novels, the Deathwatch series and the Necromunda novel Salvation.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2010 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Hardy Fowler

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