Chapter 282: Hope (Patreon)

The Apothecarion, deep beneath the fortress-monastery Arx Angelicum.

The Burning One stood amid a heap of shattered gene-vat pods, its fiery aura casting molten light across the underground chamber. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the scent of scorched metal and alchemical residue.

At its feet knelt Corbulo, the High Sanguinary Priest of the Blood Angels. Beside him stood Bellona, her armor scorched and rent from battle.

At its feet knelt Corbulo, Chief Apothecary and High Sanguinary Priest of the Blood Angels. Beside him stood Lord Inquisitor Bellona, her armor scorched and rent from battle, the scent of promethium lingering faintly upon her.

The Burning One, N’Yadra’zatha, the Flame That Walks, had come here only because Bellona claimed she required the aid of a “great and wise being.”

Such pretty flattery meant little to such an ancient and malignant horror, but Bellona was the only one still willing to guide it toward Talon, and so it endured her presence.

Corbulo spoke first, his voice heavy with purpose. “You are said to know much of creation… Tell me, do you understand the sciences of life, of biogenesis?”

The Burning One tilted its head, the inferno within its frame swirling with subtle currents of alien thought. 〈“Not my favored art. Yet my knowledge suffices for the crawling kind that infest this age. Speak.”〉

Corbulo hesitated, glancing toward Bellona. She gave a silent nod in return, her gaze steady, radiating the confidence of one who had bargained with horrors before and survived.

It had been her idea to ask the entity about the gene-seed afflictions that haunted the Sons of Sanguinius, the Red Thirst and the Black Rage. Whatever the Burning One truly was, it wielded knowledge and science far beyond the reach of mankind.

Corbulo had resisted at first. He wanted to cure his brothers, the sons of the Angel, by his own faith, by his own hand.

But Bellona’s words had struck him like a thunderbolt, “You know how impossible the Black Rage and the Red Thirst are to unravel… this might be the only chance you ever get.”

Those who dwell on the edge of despair never ignore even a spark of hope. Corbulo’s heart, burdened with the suffering of his Chapter, grasped at that spark as though it were a lifeline cast across an infinite chasm.

He unfurled a stack of data-sheets and hand-scribed parchment. On them were notes, theories on the Flaw, the twin curses of the Black Rage and the Red Thirst, though nothing that touched directly upon the sacred gene-seed itself.

The Burning One studied the vague information on the pages briefly. When it spoke again, its tone was deceptively calm.

〈“Whatever artifice birthed your kind… does it draw upon the Immaterium?”〉

Corbulo frowned, the question cutting to the core of what he already feared, yet nodding nonetheless.

At once, the flames around the Burning One surged violently. The temperature rose, scorching the nearest rags and vials; a wave of heat shimmered across the chamber, distorting the air itself. It was as though the room were swallowed by the core of a star for a moment.

A psychic wave of wrath washed over them, an anger that seemed to reach into the soul. Yet the entity did not strike them down, just as it had spared Chapter Master Phoros of the Lamenters and his men before.

At last, it exhaled, flame dimming to a molten shimmer.

〈“The Warp,”〉 it said quietly, 〈“is not like the galaxy. In this realm of flesh and iron, your acts may pass without consequence. But the Immaterium demands balance.”〉

It fixed Corbulo with eyes like twin, burning suns, and in that gaze, he felt centuries of scrutiny and contempt for the fragile creatures that tried to emulate divinity.

〈“In theory, your kind could forge perfection, warriors without flaw, if your science were pure enough. In realspace, perfection is attainable. But when your essence touches the Warp, every gain demands a price.”〉

Corbulo’s heart sank. He had bled and labored for centuries to save his brothers from the madness that haunted them. Yet this… this suggested all his toil was for nothing.

The Burning One’s flames flickered like laughter.

〈“I cannot help you. But perhaps another could. I have seen creations greater than yours, beings whose very flesh channels the Warp itself, almost flawless in their monstrous design. Perfection is… not beyond you, only beyond your comprehension.”〉

Corbulo bowed his head, hope flickering once more in his eyes. “Even that… is something. My thanks.”

The Burning One turned away, its voice echoing like a dying sunflare.

〈“Do not strive so hard for perfection, little ape. Life is fleeting. Strengthened or not, it ends the same. In the grand flow of time, even your greatest works are sparks in the void.”〉

And with that, it drifted from the chamber, leaving behind a trail of shimmering heat and scorched air.

Corbulo watched it go, muttering under his breath, “Arrogant bastard…”

....

The Next Day

Dawn broke not with light, but with the shriek of sirens and the thunder of war.

The swarm had returned, more numerous, hungrier, an endless tide of teeth, claws, and chitinous armor. Their shapes were alien nightmares, sinews pulsing beneath translucent carapaces, jaws slick with ichor and dripping acid. The sheer mass of them crashed against the fortress like a living storm, their relentless advance shaking the walls of Arx Angelicum.

It was time. The Decapitation Strike would begin. Every moment wasted was a gift to the Hive Mind.

The strike force was the same as before: First Companies from each Blood Angels successor chapter; Commander Dante himself; Mephiston, the Lord of Death; the Burning One; the Iron Man; and Phoros, Chapter Master of the Lamenters.

Most of the fortress’ strength remained behind, for Arx Angelicum was not just a fortress but a bastion, a cathedral of blood and steel, and it could not be abandoned entirely. Even the greatest heroes could not protect it alone. They could not gamble all on a single strike. No one could be certain that killing the Swarmlord would even halt the swarm.

Before deployment, the strike force assembled in the monastery’s grand hall, beneath vaulted arches carved with the deeds of Sanguinius.

“I have conducted another psychic reconnaissance,” Mephiston intoned. “The Tyranid presence has doubled since our last assault, but that will not deter us.”

“Then we go together," Dante said, his voice resonant beneath his golden helm. “As before, I lead the strike personally.”

A captain raised his hand.

“And how do we reach the beast, Lord Dante? Any transport leaving the fortress’ anti-air defense perimeter will be torn apart by the sky-swarms.”

“We teleport,” Dante replied. “The Lamenters brought their teleport beacons. More stable and precise than the Mechanicus’ standard designs.”

Phoros inclined his head in agreement. There were not enough teleport shields for all, but the techmarines had recently learned how to link them into a single mass-field projector.

“We strike hard, complete the task, and return. If the situation collapses, we extract immediately,” Dante continued. “This time, there is but one target. One mind.”

He knelt before the statue of Sanguinius, the Angel, and prayed. The hall fell silent save for the hum of energy and whispered invocations, one by one as the others followed, each seeking courage from faith and ritual alike.

When the rites were done, they gathered in the outer courtyard. The Techmarines activated the teleportation beacons, and from orbit the Daughter of Tempest locked on and engaged the sequence.

They materialized within the wreckage of a derelict bio-ship, not outside it, but upon one of its cavernous decks.

A wet hiss filled the air. Pools of green fluid bubbled across the surface, their stench choking and chemical. The walls pulsed faintly, alive with alien rhythm.

“Fortunate,” muttered Karlaen. “At least the Lamenters’ device works; they didn’t send us straight into that mess.”

A few chuckle, brief and grim. The mood was almost light. The swarm had not yet detected them.

Dante’s vox crackled with Mephiston’s voice from afar, “The Hive is unaware of your intrusion. Maintain silence.”

The Chief Librarian remained within the fortress, surrounded by other Librarians, shielding Bellona’s apprentice, a fragile seer whose gift allowed him to peer across impossible distances. Through that conduit, Mephiston could see all within the bio-ship, his mind stretched thin across space and soul, feeling the pulse of the Tyranid organisms as if they were his own heartbeat.

The apprentice gasped as visions flooded his mind: the ship’s vast arteries, the beasts that lurked within its heart, synaptic nodes glowing faintly as they directed the swarm. Outside, monstrous forms clustered around a massive synaptic node, waiting.

“Advance,” Dante ordered, drawing his axe, the Axe Mortalis. Its power field flared, casting blue light upon the organic walls.

Mephiston, fearing to alert the Swarmlord again, shielded the apprentice’s mind, erasing every glimpse of the swarmlord, lest it feel their scrutiny. He became a psychic bulwark, intercepting every whisper from the Warp.

The Swarmlord was unaware that someone was observing the entire warship.

But nor did the strike force know where it truly lay.

The Techmarines deployed a biosign scanner, following the faint signals of massive organisms to pinpoint the Swarmlord’s location. They moved quickly, weapons ready, their boots sinking into the spongy, pulsating floor that seemed to breathe beneath them.

They advanced for nearly half an hour before the Techmarine halted. His eyes flicked over the readings, then to Phoros.

“Lord, the device shows… a Tyranid bioform among us.”

“Among us?” Dante turned sharply. “You mean disguised as one of us, or that it’s physically within our midst?”

“In the middle of our formation,” the Techmarine replied, tapping the screen. “Right here.”

They looked around. Nothing. Only the faint hiss of digestion pools, the rhythmic pulse of the bio-ship like a heartbeat beneath their boots.

From afar, Mephiston sensed the anomaly as well. He pushed his mind through the apprentice’s sight, and saw nothing. No presence, no mind.

If neither sight nor the Warp could perceive it… the Techmarine must be wrong.

They moved on. Weapons tight, formation narrowed. Until one Space Marine felt the ground shift beneath his boots. He looked down.

Something glistened, a mass of flesh slowly taking shape, as though muscle were merging into one abhorrent whole.

He looked up, eyes wide. “Emperor’s mercy…” he whispered.

The next instant, the deck exploded upward.

A monstrous creature erupted from below, its maw wide enough to swallow an Astartes squad whole. Half the strike force vanished into the creature’s jaws in a single, hideous instant.