House of the Rising Son - 1

I

In the grim darkness of the future, there is only war…


The grav-truck rattled down the dirt ridden alley between the titanic factory wall and the shanty dwellings on the other side. Captain Tyran Karr adjusted his leather gloves and turned up his collar against the familiar smell of his homeworld. It had been too long, but still the smell offended him.

On his left the Private driving the vehicle changed gear in order to navigate a narrow bend onto a wider avenue. The city had spilled into every available space, and this included disused aquaducts. Years of overpopulation had transformed the foundling world into an industrial giant, producing half of the System's raw material. But still its people were living far below the Imperial poverty line, and given the state of things, it was a fairly generous line.

Karr had seen other worlds, witnessed the barren worlds and the wealthy ones too. Physus III had at least a glimmer of hope.

He was unwilling to admit, even to himself, that he was looking forward to meeting his family again. Secretly, all he wanted to do was give everything up, enrol in a factory programme and wait to see if they'd accept an old veteran like him into the ranks. But this was a dream, a fantasy he couldn't afford to indulge in. As an Imperial Officer he did more for his family than any other citizen could. Thanks to him they were comfortable, the only sacrifice was that he never saw them and in many ways this was a relief. There were far greater sacrifices, he considered, looking darkly at the Chapter fortress which dominated the horizon to the north, looming over the spires of smoke and iron like a cathedral of death.

"Turn left here," he directed quietly to the Private, who nodded sharply. He could tell that the Private was eager to see his own family. He may not see them for a long time, if he was lucky, thought Tyran, remembering the long winters he'd spent on campaign with only a pict in his pocket and the warm scents of home locked in his memory. If the Private was lucky, he'd remember Physus as "home" for another few years to come, if he was unlucky, the memory and the reality wouldn't match up even now. Things changed and the nature of the beast they laid down their lives for changed, subtly at first, then remarkably and painfully later in life.

The grav-truck listed idly into a corner and kicked up dirt left in the wake of energy keeping it off the ground. In the distance, over the grumble of the engine and the ringing of the industry around them he could hear the shouting of children. Tyran smiled to himself, locking the image of play in his mind. Even in the most desperate of places that one concept continued to thrive.

He shifted in his seat as the neighbourhood, despite its cosmetic changes, began to be recognisable. A rotting lampost here, an old fuel pump there – the occasional sign or smell that stirred uncomfortable memories. He was close and he found himself fighting the urge to tell the Private to turn around. But it was too late. He was there. Here. Home.

"Stop," he commanded. The grav-truck pulled to a halt and rattled idly as Tyran leapt unsteadily from the roll cage to the mud. "Return in two days. No more."

"Aye Captain," the Private replied, eager to be gone. Tyran nodded and pulled off his cap. The wind, bringing with it the stench of sulphur and burning fuel, filled his nostrils. With heavy footsteps he strode towards the stocky block of flats that stood over the river of mud. Each step up the stairwell felt like the hammering of nails into his fate. Would they remember him? Would they care? Could they possibly have thought about this approaching moment as much as he had?

You're over-thinking this, he told himself, rubbing his face unconsciously.

His footsteps seemed to ring in the hallway as he approached the door. The whole block looked older, more worn and abused than it had. It all seemed to reflect how old and tired he felt. With great trepidation his fist hovered over the door. Tyran willed it to fall, but before he could force it down the door burst open.

"Syrene," he gasped, her presence filling the space left by the door. She looked older, more composed and twenty times more beautiful than he remembered, but a force unlike anything he'd faced on the battlefield kept them rooted to the spot.

Finally, her hand shot forward, took his and pulled him into her home. Unconsciously he felt his hand pulling off his cap as if they were courting again. His legs had turned to slime inside his uniform. Uncertainly, his eyes consumed the flat. The furnishings were a little different, still plain and Spartan – much like the rest of the planet. Here and there he spotted touches of colour or personality – excesses and indulgences that were almost hidden. He smiled, relaxing as the smell of home filled him.

"I heard you were coming. It was on the vox-cast." She said, holding his one gloved hand in both of hers. "I stopped myself from going down to the embarkation platform. I knew you wouldn't want me there."

Tyran nodded, after so long he didn't know how to feel. She was right, of course, her prediction and understanding of him seemed to run deeper than his regarding her, but her presence, the memories. They were intoxicating.

"Thank you," he grumbled, clearing his throat as she led him into the living space. The room was mostly bear except for a tall lectern and stool in one corner next to a window. On one wall hung an effigy of the Emporor, the only decoration in the room. She led him to a couch in the centre of the room and let him descend. He watched her dart into the adjacent kitchen and return with water.

"The boys are out." She said neutrally, looking down. Tyran looked over darkly at the lectern and the heavy book that sat open on it. He knew what it was and the thought made him feel cold.

"Is he still… adamant?" Tyran asked.

Syrene nodded, her golden hair bouncing on her shoulders. "Cthyn, well, he's changed much since you saw him last."

"That was five years ago."

"I know." She replied sharply, "I know."

"They are happy, I hope."

"They are. Tyle is soon to be apprenticed to the Mechanicum and Cthyn spends much of his time," she nodded to the lectern and continued, "at his studies."

"I remember you saying that Tyle was good at handling the machinery. I read your letters, very carefully." Tyran said. He had all of their correspondence tied up in a bundle that he kept on him at all times.

She didn't really need to answer, she knew.

They both looked up at once when the door closed in the hallway and voices filled the passage.

"You asked for it." The younger voice pronounced stubbornly.

"I asked for nothing." The older, deeper voice countered, equal in stubbornness.

"You didn't have to break his arm."

The two boys appeared as silhouettes in the doorway and bags of groceries spilled to the floor and danced across the space between them. Tyran stood up quickly and hovered, uncertain of how to procede.

"Father!" the younger voice cried and Tyle appeared out of the darkness. Tyran felt the boy jump into his arms, a child he'd never met, and squeezed. All of his relief and happiness seemed to seep out of him all at once.

Cthyn stepped over the groceries slowly and revealed himself carefully. He was older, harder and far less the boy he'd known. A transformation had undertaken the son Tyran barely knew and he didn't know how to deal with it.

"Cthyn," Tyran said, "Shake your father by the hand." He finished, offering his hand tentatively. The boy looked at the gloved hand and then at the lapels and insignia.

Cthyn took it and shook firmly. "Welcome home, Captain Karr of the Imperial Guard." The boy intoned stiffly, more like a Chaplain than a son. The artificiality of the greeting shook Tyran. Tyle dropped to the floor and attacked his brother fiercely with a kick and a headbutt which Cthyn deflected easily.

"Leave him alone, C-thuck," Tyle retorted, his face red with frustration, cutting through the tension like a knife, "He's not an Astartes."

The pun on a childish curse was so ridiculous in Tyran's ears that he couldn't help laughing, despite the hurt look on Cthyn's face as he gathered the fallen fruit. The family broke away and the atmosphere relaxed. Tyle seemed happy that his father had accepted him and Syrene helped Cthyn serenely but Tyran didn't miss Cthyn mutter under his breath. He ignored the comment because there was nothing else he could do, but its impact shook him.

"No. He's not." The words rung in his ears, part insult, part disappointment. Tyran couldn't work out which was worse.