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."

House of the Rising Son - 3

III


"Something on your mind?" Syrene muttered from the doorway to the balcony. Tyran Karr was watching the twilight settle in over the city. Spires of metal, towering chimneys and columns of smoke snaked their way into the coming night. In the distance the cathedral Chapter House of the Seraphim glowed.

"Many things. None of which matter now." He turned to face his wife. The gulf of time lingered between them like a barrier, a force of will denying intimacy and corrupting whatever affection they had once shared. He thought he'd loved her once, when he was much younger. Now he felt that they respected each other as fellow matyrs. He did his duty for the Imperium as did she, and that at least kept him content.

"Come." She held out a hand for him to join her. The light from within glowed around her like a halo, reminding him of another time. He joined her in the living space where their children had cleared away the dinner plates. As a gesture of good will Tyran kneeled on the carpet and waited until they all joined him.

"Cthyn, will you lead us in prayer?" he asked humbly, looking up at his eldest. The boy stood there in his unnaturally white robe, his shaved head glowing in the harsh artificial light. Cthyn nodded and kneeled next to his father.

"We thank the glory of the Emporor for providing us with the bounty we have enjoyed this night. May His blessings rain down on us all." Cthyn said reverentially. Syrene and Tyle nodded their thanks, rose and departed from the room.

"Here boy, help an old man to his feet." Tyran held out his arm to Cthyn, who put all his weight into pulling his father up. "Thank you." Tyran said, noting the boy's strength. "Join me on the balcony."

Dread filled Tyran's chest as he led his son onto the balcony. Cthyn smiled distantly at the sight of the Chapter House dominating the skyline.

"Your mother tells me you're still persuing entrance into the Adeptus Astartes." Tyran began the conversation he'd been dreading ever since he'd received Syrene's last letter.

"I am." The boy replied defiantly. Tyran blanched uncomfortably at the defensiveness of the reply.

"It's a worthy aspiration." Tyran said hollowly, "I've served with them many times. I'd go as far as to say that some of them are my friends, after a fashion."

Cthyn snorted.

"War does strange things." Tyran snapped, angry at his assumption. "Men and Astartes fighting together in the name of the Emporor. It's a wonderful thing to behold."

"I know." It was Tyran's turn to snort at the origin of his son's knowledge. His books and writings. The record of ten millenia's worth of fighting, written in glorious detail.

"Do not put your faith in books to tell you the whole truth."

"Then whom should I trust?" Cthyn muttered. They were both tired before the argument even began. It didn't need to be voiced. Tyran disapproved of Cthyn's choice to join the Chapter, to undergo the staggering physical transformation to become an Astartes and Cthyn disapproved of his father's lack of ambition. Even now the boy was clearly struggling to understand why his father had chosen the Guard over the Seraphim. Why choose the lesser glory? Why indeed, Tyran though, casting his mind back to when he was young.

"I was an urchin. No more than a rat, living off scraps in the gutter. No one thought about joining the Space Marines – I didn't even know what they looked like until years later." Tyran said, gazing up at the Chapter House, wondering whether he'd have chosen the mightier path had it been offered to him. "The fact of the matter is the Guard got to me first. They offered me a way out."

"You were unenlightened?" Cthyn muttered, horrified.

"Oh yes. I didn't know the Light of the Emporor until I was educated." Tyran replied, hoping this would have the softening effect he desired.

"You were one of the unfortunate. That makes sense." Cthyn nodded. "I misjudged… I am sorry."

"Know this." Tyran said, sensing the breakthrough. "I do not disapprove of your decision, I am merely uneasy – jealous in many respects of what you are about to embark on."

Cthyn smiled, relief unwinding the knots in his shoulders. "I haven't passed the tests yet."

"Together we will guarantee your place in the annals of our history." Tyran said humbly, clasping his son around the shoulders.

**

Translation from the warp always made Xar ill and this time was no exception. Every four steps he found himself doubled over and retching into the machinery that filled every space that wasn't taken up by the living.

"Keep up, scrivener – I haven't got all day to indulge your weaknesses." Valdus Arten chided, striding down the corridor in full battle-plate. His gold armour glistened under the bright red interior lights of the ship. Xar coughed pitifully and moved as quickly as he could to catch up.

A draft hit him in the face as the door opened to reveal the embarkation deck. One wall of the massive hangar was open space – a string of asteroids loomed in the distance, menacingly highlighted with light from a distant nebula.

Xar watched as Sergeant Karr ordered his men onto the Thunderhawk transport ship.

"Ah, Valdus, I was wondering when you'd arrive. I thought you were going to miss the fireworks." Hyr Urukhan boomed jovially, stepping out of the bow of a support column.

"We haven't seen action in nearly a year Hyr. I wouldn't miss this for all the glory of the Emporor." Arten replied, laughing with his comrade. Xar grimaced, he'd had to put up with their comradely shows of unity and affection all the way here.

"Apparently there's an unknown craft in this sector, hiding behind one of the outlying moons. The scrivener thinks we should hold back." Arten chuckled. Urukhan gasped in a show of mock horror before cocking his bolter in a show of bravado that made Xar feel even more ill. He couldn't quite believe at times, that these beings were the holy architects of the Emporor.

"I only wanted to wait until we were certain WHO they – oh never mind." He gasped with frustration. They were already parrading away, arm in arm. Singing, no less.

Xar followed them onto the Thunderhawk. A servitor adept handed him a rebreather and showed him how to put it on. "There'll be little to no atmosphere where you're going. Precaution, you understand." Xar nodded imaptiently, eager to be away. The sooner they could find the source of this damned signal the sooner they could be on their way home.

He was directed to a cage chair and assisted into its industrial grip. Safely encased and ready to go he barely felt the take-off or the shift in atmosphere as they glided out into space. Several holo-screens lit up in front of him and a vox-communicator put him through to the Astartes veterans and the pilot crew. Space encompassed his vision in stunning clarity. Every star was visible and the nebula seemed to pulse with hidden energies. "We're on a alpha-seven descent vector for planet Index - 44173.445." One of the pilots announced. In the distance Xar could see the planet looming, its grey atmosphere highlighted with swirls of silver. It looked awful and barren, but at least he didn't have to trudge through it like the Guard and their Space Marine overseers.

The closer they got to the signal the more Xar was filled with unease. The signal pattern wasn't entirely unknown, he recognised it as being an Imperial signal, albeit very different. The problem was that this signal pattern wasn't on any record he could summon from the Imperium's data network; which left one of two very unsettling possibilities, either it was so old it pre-dated the records or it was so new it had yet to be integrated into the system. Uncertain of how to proceed he had opted to keep this information to himself. In due course the source would be found and the answer would reveal itself. He just hoped they were prepared for what they found.

**

Tyran adjusted his low-environment suit uncomfortably, wriggling under the itchy membranes that were designed to protect him from the vacuum of space – not, he regretted from the irritation of chafing.

In his hands he held the weight of his lasgun and ran his hand over the reinforced wood body. The habit was comforting and a little ritualistic, it was something he'd never have admitted to an Inquisitor, they took thse things far too seriously he felt.

The ardours of the journey had taken their toll on him. A lot of time had been spent contemplating his fate leading up to this point. He was a nobody, an urchin drafted from the streets of his homeworld, inducted into the ranks of the Imperial Guard, given an education, a structure and a sense of self-respect. But he was still a nobody. No family, nobody to remember his name or his actions should the inevitable happen – all except one. Unconsiously he felt for the pict of his beloved pressed to his chest. Dearest Syrene. Even now he could see her face, the soft contours of her chin, the way her hair fell onto her shoulders. He would make her proud. He would carve himself a history that she would be proud to remember.

**

The wind gently played at the net curtain that lined the window. The room was dark and Syrene was lying down on her bed, waiting.

After an age she heard the sound of boots on the floorboards and from the corner of her eye she noticed the shadow in the door frame. Slowly he took off his coat, uniform, gloves, boots and cap, all neatly lined up on the simple dresser. She could smell the musky leather and suede from across the room. He had a distinctive smell that she remembered. It was that above all else that confirmed that this was her husband. The time they'd spent apart was so long she'd almost forgotten everything else about him. All apart from her duty and the memory of something she'd felt a long time ago.

Did she love him? It didn't seem to matter anymore.

She held her breath as he paused before getting in next to her. Suddenly she wished the bed was twice as wide so the presence of his body so close to hers wouldn't throb between them. She listened as his breathing slowed and drifted into sleep before allowing herself to fitfully doze before dawn.

House of the Rising Son - 2

II

"Ten millenia of war," First Remembrancer Xar muttered, "A glorious struggle to maintain and expand the Emporor's might against the the countless hoardes of xeno scum… and here we are." Xar stepped back from the window and gestured at the view beyond. The city of Pylonia spread out at their feet, an ancient and simple city on an ancient and simple world. In the distance loomed the wall that divided it down the centre. Ork Waaargh! banners plastered the fifty foot tall mountain of concrete and reinforced fibre steel, drowning out the glorious Chapter standards that Xar had helped scribe.

"Stop whining scrivener or I'll have you shot for sedition." Growled Ylar, Captain of the fifth Company of Seraphim. Xar smiled, this was his second death threat of the day which meant the towering Astartes was in a comparatively good mood.

"Our whole society is designed around warfare, it's all we know," Xar mused, "So the very idea of deliberately enforcing a stalemate on a world we could take in an afternoon's work seems… unsettling." Xar continued jovially.

"Are you quite done?" Ylar said.

"Oh I could go on, but something tells me you might actually follow through on your threats and throw me over the wall."

Ylar laughed and stood up, all eight foot of him. The sight of an Astartes still made Xar feel cold with fear. It was unsettling seeing the Emporor's vision of human perfection made manifest. It was like being in the presence of the divine Himself. Xar readjusted his habit and alighted the stool next to his tall desk. He was working on a translation for the city wall. Green-skin was such an awful language to deal with, it had even fewer words than Terran, which in comparison with the Tau or Eldar tongues seemed primitive in itself.

"One day," Ylar muttered, "The need for a stalemate will end and we'll get our war. Until then, we wait patiently and do the bidding of the Chapter."

"Indeed, and I'll be dead by then and you'll have shrivelled up from boredom." Xar said, "You weren't designed for governing."

"If it weren't for the arena," Ylar chuckled, clearly feeling uncomfortable voicing a genuine opinion with anyone who wasn't Astartes. "I might go mad."

Xar indulged him with a laugh but secretly believed every word. His role here was purely administrative, he hadn't expected to become fond of the lumbering giant. Long periods of time spent cooped up with unlikely people begot unlikely friendships. Working with a Seraphim Space Marine was on the surface an honour, but in practice it was a glorious insight into the wonders of the Emporor.

A transmission report, tucked under a mountain of tedious paperwork caught its eye. It was stamped with a priority seal.

"Interesting," Xar muttered, reading an intercepted transmission recorded from an Ork hyperlink. It didn't take much to get the gist of what it was saying. "There's a strange signal emmanating from an outlying system."

Ylar turned around, his long pure-white habit whispering in his wake. "Oh?"

"The Orks aren't interested, it seems. One of their long distance probes picked it up."

"That would put it on one of the Outer Systems, practically on the edge of the Galaxy." Ylar said, hovering over Xar. "They don't have the resources to investigate. If they had I daresay they'd be more interested in wiping us out."

"The same is true for us." Xar replied, thinking. "The interesting thing is the signal definitely isn't Ork and they can't pinpoint its cultural origin."

"A new species?"

"Or an old one." Xar muttered, rifling through a pile of notes for a communique he'd received a few days before regarding the Imperial Guard troops being garrissoned in the city over the coming months. They were harmless enough in small numbers, as far as the Orks were concerned. "We could send a squadron of Imperial Soldiers to investigate." Xar suggested, careful of the pitch in his voice.

"That could be done…" Ylar replied, his curiosity heightened, "Even if it's nothing, it'll give them something to do. Summon one of the lower Sergeants."

Xar ran his finger down the column of names on the Officer's manifest and came to the bottom. Newly promoted and as green as a sapling. "Sergeant Tyran Karr. He'll do."

**

Tyran climbed the stairs as slowly and deliberately as he could. He was coming face to face with a Space Marine. What could he possibly have done to deserve this? He hadn't offended anybody. Certainly, many of the higher officers regarded him with some disdain, but that was only natural in a chain of command.

The Astartes of the Seraphim Chapter, one of the smallest outlying Chapters in the Imperium, kept its cathedral HQ on his homeworld – technically speaking, their homeworld. Physus III was a backwater Imperial capital that was smaller than most Chapter's moons. He'd once seen picts of Ultramar and the images had blown him away. A civilian population of thirty million was nothing next to the countless billions the Ultramarines lorded over.

The door loomed in front of him ajar. Light spilled across the floor and into the dark stairwell that led from the bowels of the headquarters below.

"Come in Sergeant," the rich timbre of Captain Ylar's voice bounced off the walls. Tyran found his legs moving independently of his brain as they led him into the room where Captain Ylar kept his office. The place was a mess, the floor covered in scrolls and datapads. An official remembrancer in a rich brown habit and Imperial insignia dotted around the floor picking up stray pieces of paper.

"Good. At ease, Sergeant." Ylar appeared from the shadows, every bit the image of physical perfection. Tyran tried to relax a bit but his back didn't seem to want to let him. "I've summoned you regarding a mission I think would best suit your talents." Ylar shot a brief glance at his remembrancer who didn't seem to acknowledge it. Tyran's heart dropped in his chest – he'd only just arrived from a thrity day translation and a year long campaign. He wasn't mentally prepared for another mission. Protocol and fear stopped this from showing on his face. Much.

"Intelligence suggests that a beacon of unknown origin is broadcasting on an open channel from the Galaxy's rim. Other than that we know nothing. I would like you to take a small company of men and investigate on my behalf." Ylar finished with a brief smile. Tyran was speechless.

"I don't know what to say, Captain," he muttered.

"Of course, you wont be going alone, I can at least spare some of my Veteran soldiers to oversee proceedings. Prepare to leave within the week, Sergeant. Dismissed." And with that Tyran found his body snapping to attention like an obedient puppet and marching out.

The journey down the stairs and across the city to the nearest bar passed him by in a blur. An Astartes had hand-picked him for a mission of his own. He hadn't been punished – he was being rewarded, surely. His mind worked quickly to sift through the pieces as he strode past boarded up buildings, ancient ruins and comparatively modern elements. The streets were part road, part mud bath and reminded him of home.

Could the Captain have chosen him because he was disposable? He noted that he was only sending one Astartes to accompany them – would that be enough? Were they really that good? Then again, his ego and the arduous last year demanded he take this as a compliment and a step on the ladder to promotion. If what they said about this world was true he'd need every opportunity he could get to prove that he was worthy of greater things.

**

"You'll be going with them," Ylar said, looking Xar straight in the eyes. The remembrancer tugged at the adrenal arteries that fed into his neck. His immediate reaction was terror.

"Do you think it necessary, Captain?" Xar stammered, "I mean – what about your filing, who will do that if I'm gallivanting across the cosmos on a fool's errand?"

Ylar smiled fondly and settled a hand on Xar's shoulder, turning him gently to face the window which looked out over the city. "I need your eyes to see what I cannot. You must understand that I'm putting great faith in you Xar, more faith than I would lightly entrust to a mere mortal like yourself."

Not even an appeal to Xar's ego could counter the ball of dread in his stomach.

"How can I expect an Imperial Guard Sergeant to adequately report back on what he finds? I need you to lend your knowledge and experience to the task." Ylar continued sadly. "I wish I could go with you."

Xar tried to take heart from the confidence Ylar was showing in him, but Xar knew why his eyes were needed. The troubling nature of the signal's origin was perhaps too great a puzzle for soldiers to decipher alone. Ylar needed someone who could recognise its origin and make a decision on what needed to be done in the greater interest of the Imperium.

"Thank you for this honour." Xar muttered.

"Do not worry," Ylar boomed, turning away from the bleak view, "I am not sending you alone. Some of my best men will be accompanying you. Sergeant Karr will lead his troops and you will observe under the protection of Hyr Urukhan and Valdus Arten."

Xar smiled. He was familiar with the decorated veterans. They had so many Oaths of Moment pinned to their armour it was difficult to see the gold armour peeking through underneath. Xar resigned himself to the journey and dwelled bitterly on how much he hated space travel.

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.