House of the Rising Son - 4

IV


"Eldar!!!" The voice screamed over the vox as Xan cradled his head in his hands. He'd been right, they should have investigated the seemingly insignificant ship that was hiding behind one of the moons.

He scanned the monitors and saw the Imperial Guard pinned into a narrowing valley. Beyond the narrowest point was the source of the signal, but between them were an unknown number of Eldar with tactical advantage. The gallant Astartes were leading from the front, and the Guard were throwing their all into pinning the Eldar to the rocks.

Xan leaned back in the cockpit seat and steepled his fingers, thinking about Thunderhawk's arsenal of support weapons. "We couldn't provide some kind of cover fire, could we?"

"Orders from Venerable Hyr, sir," the Pilot replied, "If they have heavy weapons the ship could be damaged."

Xan knew that the Astartes weren't quite as thick-headed as he would have liked to think they were. They were testing the water, he was certain; sooner or later they would be forced into a retreat but not without learning the strengths and weaknesses of the Eldar defense.

**

It was a hopeless failiure, Tyran resigned to himself. He was standing in file with his soldiers, concentrating their fire on the dimly outlined rocks above them. Lasguns wouldn't win them the day. Not even the battle-stims could but them victory, they'd need a miracle.

His body moved independently of thought. Years of training and hard discipline had shaken the last of his early life from him. The Guard were his family, they were everything to him. They'd taught him self-respect, aspiration, given him structure and goals. Now all that seemed to be unravelling. His first mission an absolute failiure. Lack of planning, lack of foresight. The Astartes had wholly usurped his position, and understandably, given his inability to lead when it was needed.

Until he'd joined the Guard he'd never known the concept of shame. Morality had been something that the Emporor had taught him. Theft and vandalism had been part of his daily life. He thought of Syrene and instantly bile seemed to fill his gullet, burning in his chest. Misery shame fuelled each pull of the trigger. Not like this, he thought, I wont go down like this.

Light seemed to burn in front of him, and time slowed to a deathly crawl. Lasbeams hung in the air like tracers of blood-red energy. A voice whispered in his ear. It was sweet, angelic – the words indistinct, but their meaning was clear.

In an instant a vision came to him. He could win the day, it was all so obvious, all he had to do was go against all his instincts as a soldier and break rank.

**

"We've learned all we can," Hyr shouted down the vox. Xan nodded, satisfied that they could still regroup and organise a counter offensive. "I'm ordering the retreat."

Xan nodded to the pilot and the high orbital circling pattern changed steadily into a controlled descent. He ignored the plans for the pick-up point and instead concentrated on the import of the Eldar's presence. They were ancient, even before the days of antiquity they were old. Their motives were as sharp and erratic as their battle technique – in and out before anyone could flinch. The implications of why they were here, risking a prolonged defense of a position was worrying. He had to know what was behind this mysterious Imperial signal. He had to know the source.

**

Shuriken fire hissed and whizzed all around him, dancing off rocks and making that distinctive tearing sound that so embodied the alienness of the Eldar. Tyran's legs moved swiftly and unhindered in the low gravity. It lent him strength, speed and an unprecented agility that felt liberating. Maybe this was what it was like to be an Astartes.

The thought hung in his mind. It felt wrong, heretical to make such an arrogant presumption. As if he could ever know what it was like to be truly superhuman. The Inquisition would have a field day with him, that is if he survived this suicidal attempt of his.

At the head of the valley he staid low and watched as the lithe Eldar scoured the rocks, chattering incoherently. They were taller than the Astartes, which in itself seemed impossible. Their thin bodies coated in plates of pearly white armour. In the distance he could see the glittering form of the wraithbone portal. If he managed to destroy that then they would be cut off until reinforcements could reach them via their ship. It was a tempting target but his resolve was to find the source of the signal, it was what the voice in his mind wanted.

Risking capture, he leapt across a small gap and began to crawl through the dust and up a slope towards the crest of the crater. Over the vox he could hear the Astartes calling the retreat. Part of him was horrified, the rest was glad of the distraction. Maybe now the Eldar wouldn't be scouring the rocks for him.

At the lip of the crater he peered carefully into the unknown. The nebula, which was responsible for most of the light in this system, was unfortunately against him, but he could roughly make out the size of the crater. At its centre he was certain he would find the source of the signal. With luck a light appeared near the base of the fallen object. It was a green flare, Eldar in origin. There was someone down there examining it. The light picked up sharp details on the body of the object. It was large, reinfocred in plates of metal and largely unrecognisable in its origin.

Then he saw it – the Imperial Aquila. His heart skipped in his chest and he almost lost his grip. By now he could hear the Astartes screaming down the vox for his hide. His secret was out. They were calling him a traitor, but Tyran was re-affirming his faith in the Imperium at the sight of the most beloved symbol. "It's here!" he barked, "I've found it! For the Emporor!" he bellowed as he stood up and threw himself into the crater. His legs catapulted him down the slope in striding bounds. He ripped his las-pistol from its holster and shot aimlessly in the direction of the lone Eldar. It was too late to defend itself as Tyran landed on top of it.

Dimly he heard the roar of engines above him, the blasting bark of bolter report, deafening in the enclosed space.

As the world dissolved into light around him he heard a single, angelic voice whisper to him, "Thank you."

**

When Tyran woke up he found himself unable to move. His joints were rusty and his limbs were dull. As he opened his eyes details began to make themselves known. With an increasing sense of worry, he recognised that he was staring up at the ceiling of a detention cell.

The walls were made of reinforced steel and stone, designed to contain a rampaging Ork and perfectly capable of keeping Tyran enclosed for an eternity. With great effort he managed to push himself into a sitting position from where he could better survey his surroundings.

For some unknown reason he was wearing a white habit, not unlike that of an Adept. Memories from the battle in the crater came back to him. Flashes of bright white light. Angry voices. The sense of euphoria and divinity in his very being. He remembered rapture and joy. The whispered thanks.

"He's awake," he heard a voice clearly state from outside. The door shifted as the gears inside its robust body began to turn, swinging the mass into the alcove in the wall. Beyond, the light was brighter and Tyran found himself squinting. A small man entered the cell, sat on one of the benches opposite Tyran's and considered him with the full weight of his years and experience. Judging by the amount of Imperial paraphenalia dangling from his brown habit, both appeared to be considerable.

"What do you remember, boy?" The Remembrancer asked sharply.

Tyran shook his head and tried to speak through a mouth-full of phlegm. Coughing, he spluttered, "Not much."

"How convenient." The Remembrancer stood up and adjusted the adrenal valves at his neck. "You've casued quite a stir. First you broke ranks, then undertook a suicidal attempt to get to the source of the signal and now you've started spouting the words of the Emporor. In your sleep, no less."

Tyran frowned. All he really remembered was the white light and the voice.

"Did you recover the source?"

"Oh yes," the Remembrancer replied darkly, "We recovered it alright."

He gestured to the guards outside who swiftly obeyed, linking their arms under Tyran's and lifting him to his feet. The journey through the ship, past curious and hostile eyes all the way to the cargo hold passed in a flurry of unanswered questions. The voice in his head grew in its power the closer he got, his state became lucid and the walls and faces around him blurred into one mass.

Tyran's eyes shot open as he hit the deck, unceremoniously dumped in front of a giant pod. The Aquila seemed to glow on its surface. Beneath it, writing flickered across the surface in an ancient script. Tyran had never been able to read, he'd been too old to fully grasp even the basics, but these words proclaimed their meaning to him.

He crawled forward in disbelief to stroke the letters, needing to be certain that he understood what they meant. From the shadows people were watching. The Astartes loomed, threats and violence hung in the air unspoken.

"The Emporor be praised," Tyran muttered, his fingers finding the catch under the lip of the plating. With a hiss, the pod began to unfurl like a petal. "We are in the presence of the divine," he gasped, trying to translate for these mere mortals what he could see, "We are in the presence of a Primarch!"

As the light poured out of the pod, its glow bathing the room in song and power, Tyran stood up and peered into the heart of his dreams. Sitting on a bed of silver blankets, amidst a sea of coiling machinery and armour was a baby. Pearl-like in its fleshy glow and beautiful beyong all comprehension.

Tyran was too absorbed in this moment of perfection to notice the clamour of weapons behind him. Las-pistols were raised, bolters cocked and the room erupted in a wave of shouting. Many words were used in that moment, but one stood out above all the others.

"Heresy."