‘No.’
‘What is your name?’ Cyrene tried at last.
Silence.
‘Who were you?’ she asked. Cyrene was inured to servitors; the Imperium had left behind the secrets of their construction sixty years before, and they were commonplace in Monarchia. Penance was the term used for the fate suffered by heretics and criminals. Either way, it amounted to the same. The sinner’s mind was scrubbed of all vitality, and bionics were installed within the body to increase its strength or enhance its utility.
Silence met her question.
‘Before you were made into this,’ she tried to make her smile more friendly. ‘Who were you?’
‘No.’
‘No, you don’t recall, or no, you won’t tell me?’
‘No.’
Cyrene sighed. ‘Fine. Go, then. See you tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ it replied. Feet shuffled. The door hissed closed again.
‘I shall name you Kale,’ she said to the empty room.
Xaphen had visited her twice since the first day, and Argel Tal had come three times. Each meeting with the captain had played out much the same as the one preceding it: with stilted conversation and awkward silences. From what Cyrene gathered, the Legion’s fleet was en route to a world they were supposed to conquer, but were denied the order to begin the assault.
‘Why?’ she’d asked, glad to have even this uncomfortable company.
‘Aurelian remains in seclusion,’ Argel Tal had said.
‘Aurelian?’
‘A name for our primarch, spoken by few outside the Legion. It is Colchisian, the language of our home world.’
‘It’s strange,’ Cyrene confessed, ‘to have a nickname for a god.’
Argel Tal fell silent for some time. ‘A primarch is not a god. Sometimes the sons of gods, despite the power they inherit, are demigods. And it is not a “nickname”. It is a term of kinship, used only among family. It translates loosely as “the gold”.
‘You said he remains secluded.’
‘Yes. Within his chambers on our flagship, Fidelitas Lex.’
‘Does he hide from you?’
She heard the Astartes swallow. ‘I am not entirely comfortable with this line of discussion, Cyrene. Let us just say that he has much to contemplate. The God-Emperor’s judgement is a burden upon many souls. The primarch suffers as we suffer.’
Cyrene thought long and hard before what she said next. ‘Argel Tal?’
‘Yes, Cyrene.’
‘You do not sound upset. You don’t sound as if you’re suffering.’
‘Do I not?’
‘No. You sound angry.’
‘I see.’
‘Are you angry at the Emperor for what he did to you?’
‘I have to go,’ said Argel Tal. ‘I am summoned.’ The Astartes rose to his feet.
‘I heard no summons,’ the young woman said. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you.’
Argel Tal walked from the room without another word. It would be four days before she had company again.
Argel Tal regarded the headless body with momentary consternation. He hadn’t meant to do that.
Decapitated, the servitor toppled to its side and lay on the floor of the iron cage, shivering in fitful spasm. The captain ignored its lifeless twitching, instead focusing on the slack-mouthed head that had flown between the iron cage’s bars and thudded against the wall of the practice chamber. It watched him now, its dead eyes trembling, its augmented maw open – tongueless, with a jawbone of bronze plating.
‘Was that necessary?’ Torgal asked. The sergeant was stripped to the waist, his muscled torso a geography of swollen, layered muscles, formed by the biological tectonics at work in his genetic code. The fused ribcage robbed him of much of his humanity, as did the lumpen physicality of his musculature. If there was anything that could be considered handsome in the laboratory-wrought physiques of the Astartes subspecies, it was lacking in Torgal. Scars decorated much of his dark flesh: ritual brandings, tattooed Colchisian scripture, and the slitted valleys from carving blades that found their marks over the years.
Argel Tal lowered the practice gladius. The smeared redness along its length reflected the overhead lighting in wet flashes.
‘I am unfocused,’ he said.
‘I noticed, sir. So did the training servitor.’
‘Two weeks now. Two weeks of sitting in orbit, doing nothing. Two weeks of Aurelian remaining in isolation. I was not made to deal with this, brother.’
Argel Tal hit the release pad, opening the training cage’s hemispheres and stepping from its boundaries. With a grunt, he cast his bloodied sword to the ground. It skidded, rasping along the floor and coming to a rest by the dead slave.
‘It was my turn next,’ Torgal muttered, looking down at the slain slave with its six bionic arms. Each one ended in a blade. None bore traces of blood.
Argel Tal wiped sweat from the back of his neck, and tossed the towel onto a nearby bench. He was only half-paying attention to the maintenance servitors dragging the slain slave away for incineration.
‘I spoke with Cyrene,’ he said, ‘several days ago.’
‘So I heard. I’ve been thinking of meeting with her myself. You don’t find her a calming influence?’
‘She sees too much,’ said Argel Tal.
‘How ironic.’
‘I’m serious,’ the captain said. ‘She asked if I was angry with the Emperor. How am I supposed to answer that?’
Torgal’s glance took in the rest of Seventh Company’s practice chamber. The battle-brothers training elsewhere knew well enough to give their leader a respectful space when his humours were unbalanced. Wooden staves clacked against each other; fist fighting spars played out to the sound of meaty thumps; powered force cages muted the sounds of clashing blades within. He turned back to the captain.
‘You could answer it with the truth.’
Argel Tal shook his head. ‘The truth feels foul on the tongue. I won’t speak it.’
‘Others will speak it, brother.’
‘Others? Like you?’
Torgal shrugged a bare shoulder. ‘I am not ashamed to be angry, Argel Tal. We were wronged, and we’ve been walking the wrong path.’
Argel Tal stretched, working out the stiffness in his shoulder muscles. He took a moment to compose his reply. Torgal was a loudmouth, and he knew whatever he said would be carried to the rest of the company, perhaps even across to the rest of the Serrated Sun.
‘There’s more to this than whether the Emperor wronged us or not. We are a Legion founded on faith, and we find ourselves faithless. Anger is natural, but it is no answer. I will wait for the primarch to return to us, and I will hear his wisdom before I decide my path.’
Torgal couldn’t help but smile. ‘Listen to yourself. Are you sure you don’t want to carry a crozius? I’m sure Erebus would consider training you again. I’ve heard him express his regret to Xaphen more than once.’
‘You are an insidious presence in my life, brother.’ The captain’s scowl darkened his otherwise handsome features. His eyes were the blue of Colchisian summer skies, and his face – unscarred like so many of his brethren – still showed echoes of the human he might have been.
‘That ship sailed a long time ago,’ the captain said. ‘I made my choice, and the First Chaplain made his.’
‘But–’
‘Enough, Torgal. Old wounds can still ache. Has there been word of the primarch’s return?’
Torgal regarded Argel Tal closely, as if seeking something hidden in his eyes. ‘Not that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?’
‘You know why. You’ve not heard anything from the Chaplain gatherings?’
Torgal shook his head. ‘They’re bound by oaths of secrecy that a few innocent questions won’t break. Have you spoken with Xaphen?’
‘Many times, and he reveals little. Erebus has the primarch’s ear, and delivers Aurelian’s words down to the warrior-priests at their conclaves. Xaphen promises we’ll be enlightened soon. The primarch’s seclusion will be a matter of weeks, not months.’