Honorius Luciel and Sorot Tchure stand on the observation deck above the principal hold of the cruiser Samothrace. They have greeted each other with respect and affection, and spent the day supervising the transfer distribution of Army personnel and munitions from Tchure’s warcarrier to the troop ships in Luciel’s oversight. They are alike – alike in stature, alike in rank; one red, one blue, as though stamped from identical fabricatory presses and then finished in different paints.
‘We have a bond, I believe,’ says Tchure. ‘I hope I am not wrong.’
‘We do,’ Luciel agrees. ‘It was an honour to serve with you on Caskian.’
‘We are, therefore… unusual,’ Tchure ventures.
Luciel laughs.
‘You asked to join the advance,’ says Luciel. ‘I imagine your primarch was supportive?’
‘He was.’
‘Just as mine was,’ Luciel replies, ‘when I requested the duty of close protection of Numinus High Anchor. We are cast in the roles of ambassadors, brother.’
‘This is my feeling,’ Tchure nods, greatly relieved that it is now, after hours in each other’s company, at last being spoken of.
‘We are, I believe, the only genuine point of friendship between our Legions,’ says Luciel. ‘No wonder we find ourselves paving the way for the conjunction.’
They walk along the deck, under the immense arches of the hold rib-vaults.
‘My Legion’s pride is bruised,’ says Tchure.
‘Of course it is,’ Luciel replies. ‘Wounded, I would say. And this is the remedy. Our Legions will serve alongside each other in collaborative effort, and thus bond. Our experience serves as an example in miniature.’
‘There has been talk of this as an exercise,’ replies Tchure. ‘That the Warmaster is flexing his authority by commanding two of his brothers, especially one who is so mighty in his own right. But that is smoke. I think Warmaster Horus is displaying remarkable insight. He knows that, as things stand, the unity of any line formed by the Word Bearers and the Ultramarines will be flawed.’
‘Warmaster Horus, in his infinite wisdom, has clearly studied the report on the Caskian Campaign.’
‘He has, I think.’
Bad blood can take a long time to dilute. Sometimes it must be let out. The point of contention, the bruised pride, is simple. Dissatisfied with the progress and performance of the XVII during the Great Crusade, the Emperor sent the Ultramarines to chastise them. It was an absolute and humiliating rebuke, and stemmed from the Emperor’s distaste for the Word Bearers’ zealotry, especially when it came to the veneration of his own person as divine. The Emperor’s truth was the secular Imperial truth. He tolerated more pious attitudes amongst his sons, but only so far.
It was, perhaps, the Ultramarines’ misfortune to be used in such a way. Not just any Legion, but the largest, the most secular, the most efficient, the most disciplined. The most, it could be argued, successful.
Luciel is sympathetic. He has spoken, privately, with his primarch on the subject on several occasions, because Guilliman is evidently bothered by it too. To be used as an instrument of humiliation, and as an example of perfection, does not sit comfortably. Guilliman is concerned that things will never be right in his relations with the Word Bearers. It is clear from the way he has repeatedly quizzed Luciel, the only officer of the XIII to have ever engineered a reasonable confidence with an officer of the XVII.
For the Word Bearers have only ever been loyal and devoted. Luciel knows this. He has no doubt about the level of Tchure’s absolute loyalty. They had their devotion questioned and vilified by the very object of that devotion.
Horus Lupercal, Warmaster, is demonstrating his wisdom and perception right at the start of his command. He is healing wounds. He is actively working to set two of his largest Legions at ease with each other, and close the bitter rift.
‘On Caskian,’ says Luciel, ‘I learned a lot from you, Sorot. I learned to wonder at the stars, and to appreciate the humbling scale of our galaxy.’
‘And I learned from you,’ Tchure replies. ‘I learned the close analysis and appraisal of my enemies, and thus re-measured my own capacity as a warrior.’
The exchange is candid. On Caskian, Tchure reminded Luciel of his place in a greater universe. Though he did not try to convert the Ultramarines captain to any form of spiritual belief, he was able to help him glimpse the ineffable, the cosmic mystery that reminds a man, even a powerful transhuman, of his tiny part in the great design, which forms the beating, vital heart of any faith. In effect, Tchure gave Luciel perspective that beneficially diminished Luciel’s sense of self in the face of the universe. It showed Luciel his place, and reminded him of his purpose.
In return, Luciel demonstrated to Tchure the rigors of practice and theory, a robust schooling that pierced the veil of spirituality with a welcome pragmatism. Luciel reminded Tchure he was superhuman. Tchure reminded Luciel he was only superhuman. Both benefitted immeasurably from the exchange of perspectives.
‘I would know great joy,’ says Luciel, ‘if our brothers on both sides could come to celebrate their common differences the way we have.’
‘I have no doubt,’ replies Tchure, ‘that this conjunction will bring an end to the hostility between our Legions.’
Aeonid Thiel, marked for censure, awaits his interview. He has been aboard the Macragge’s Honour for some hours.
He was told to wait. He is expecting to be called into the presence of Sharad Antoli, Master of the 13th Chapter. He is braced for this. The rebuke will be unstinting, and discipline duties will follow.
He has already been through it once from Taerone, his company captain. During this interview, Thiel made the mistake of attempting to justify his actions. He will not repeat the error when he is called before Chapter Master Antoli.
Thiel has been obliged to wait in a huge anteroom on the fortieth deck. It is a display arsenal, lined with weapons. There are burnished practice cages on raised platforms down the centre of the chamber.
After three hours of standing perfectly still, he relents, removes his helm, and begins to wander the empty chamber, admiring the weapons on display. Most are blade weapons, many master-crafted. They represent the peak weaponcraft of a thousand cultures. This is an exemplar collection, where the highest ranking officers of the XIII come to study weapon types, rehearse and practise with them, and thus improve their theoretical and practical differentials.
Thiel knows he is unlikely to ever come so close to such perfect specimens again. He fights the temptation to take some of the weapons down and examine them. He wants to feel the comparative weights, the individual balances.
When no one has come for a great stretch of time, Thiel reaches a hand out towards a longsword suspended against the wall on a gravity hook.
‘Sergeant Thiel?’
Thiel stops and quickly withdraws his hand. A deck officer in ceremonial dress has entered the chamber.
‘Yes?’
‘I have been asked to inform you that you will not have to wait much longer.’
‘I will wait as long as I am required to,’ replies Thiel.
‘Well,’ the officer shrugs, ‘it will not be much longer. Logistical issues have taken priority. The primarch will call you shortly.’
He turns to leave.
‘Wait, the primarch?’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
‘I was waiting to be called by Chapter Master Antoli,’ says Thiel.