Aaron Dembski-Bowden - The First Heretic

They’d been gone no time at all.

‘Was any of that real?’ he asked.

Ingethel the Ascended gestured with two of its spindly arms, the talons pointing to the ground behind the Word Bearers. There, on the decking, were the swords of red iron: broken beyond repair, the shards darkened by scorch markings from the detonation that ruined them.

‘That looks real to me,’ Xaphen chuckled.

You have seen much, and learned more. One matter remains. The daemon slithered around the Astartes, circling them with slow relish. Something akin to amusement glinted in its ugly eyes as it watched Argel Tal.

‘What remains?’

A leap of faith.

Xaphen’s eyes met Argel Tal’s. ‘We’ve come this far. We stand united.’

The captain nodded.

A choice must be made. You have witnessed the truth of the gods. You have seen the Emperor’s own lies laid bare, and you know the slow extinction that awaits humanity if the species remains blind to the Primordial Truth.

So choose.

‘Choose what?’ Argel Tal narrowed his eyes. Unwilling to tolerate the creature’s stench any longer, he put on his helm, breathing easier as the collar seals hissed and locked.

To lower this vessel’s Geller Field. Ingethel stroked a claw down the dome’s side. On the other side of the dense glass, screaming faces and frantic talons pressed against the daemon’s hand. Lower the Geller Field. Become the architects of humanity’s destiny, and the weapons Lorgar needs to wield against the Empire of Lies.

The Word Bearers didn’t all react alike. Xaphen closed his eyes with a knowing smile, as if this confirmed something he’d been waiting to hear. Torgal rested his hands on his holstered pistol and sheathed blade, while Malnor placed his grey gauntlet on the stocks of the two bolt pistols mag-locked to his thighs. Dagotal stepped back from the group, his body language betraying his unease even though his eye lenses gave no emotion away.

Argel Tal didn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, he laughed.

‘You are insane, creature.’

This is the respect you show to a messenger of the gods?

‘What did you expect? That the Word Bearers would kneel and accept everything you said as a divine mandate? We are done with kneeling, Ingethel.’

The daemon’s maw quivered as it offered a rattish hiss. Lower the Geller Field and you will taste the last promise of proof.

‘We must heed the messenger’s words,’ said the Chaplain.

‘Enough, Xaphen.’

‘Aurelian demanded this of us! We were ordered to follow the guide, no matter where he led us. How can you baulk at the final moment of truth?’

‘ Enough. We are not risking the ship in this storm. We already lost the Shield of Scarus . A hundred brothers lost in this sector of space, and you smile when it comes to losing a hundred more.’

They were not chosen, Argel Tal. You are. It was their time to meet destruction. They lacked the strength of will to endure what you are being offered.

The captain rounded on the daemon. ‘What will happen if we lower the field? Will we be at the mercy of the storm? Pulled apart like every other Imperial vessel that lost Geller stability during warp flight?’

No. Lower the anathemic skin, and my kin will come to join us. To share the final revelation with the gods’ chosen warriors.

‘Daemons... on the ship.’ Argel Tal watched the faces of screaming souls thrashing against the dome. ‘This cannot be our choice. These cannot be the gods of the galaxy.’

Xaphen softened his voice. To Argel Tal’s ears, he’d never sounded more like Erebus, his former mentor.

‘Brother... We were never given a promise that the truth would be easy to bear. The way we were chosen – and our father favoured – by true divine power.’

Argel Tal turned to stare at Xaphen through a targeting reticule. ‘You seem very certain about this course of action, brother.’

‘Are you not honoured to be chosen like this? I wish to be one of the first to receive the blessing of the gods. It is a leap of faith, as Ingethel said.’

‘Sylamor will not lower the Geller Field, even if we order it. It would be suicide.’

There will be no fruitless death. This is your moment of ascension, Word Bearers. Let fate take its course. Think of your primarch, kneeling in the dust before Guilliman and the God-Emperor.

This moment will be the beginning of his vindication. The Emperor’s lies will damn your species. The Primordial Truth will set it free.

‘We can carry this lore back to the Imperium, but humanity will never surrender itself to this... chaos.’

Humanity has no choice. It will die under the claws of aliens, and those few that survive will be swallowed by the spreading influence of the warp gods. They only grow stronger, Argel Tal. If one refuses to worship them, then that species has no place in this galaxy.

The Word Bearer didn’t speak the words that lay on his tongue – nevertheless, the daemon sensed them.

What will you do, human? Fight us? Wage war against the gods themselves? How lovely, to imagine the little Empire of mortal man laying siege to heaven and hell.

Just like the eldar... You will see the Primordial Truth, or you will be destroyed by it.

‘One last question,’ he said.

Ask.

‘You name the Emperor as the Anathema. Why?’

Because of the future. The Emperor will damn your species, denying humanity its birthright as the chosen children of the gods. He wages war against divinity, shrouding your species in ignorance. That will damn you all. The Emperor is not only loathed for his treacheries against the gods, he is anathemic to all human life.

Lorgar knows this. It is why he sent you into the Eye. Your enlightenment is the first step in the human race’s ascendancy.

Argel Tal looked into the daemon’s eyes for a long, long moment. In the mismatched depths, he once more saw Lorgar abase himself in the dust. He felt the deceitful Emperor’s psychic gale throwing him from his feet, casting him to the dirt before the Ultramarines.

He felt the serenity of standing in the City of Grey Flowers, knowing beyond doubt that his cause was holy, that his crusade was just. How long had it been since he’d felt such purity of purpose?

‘Qan Shiel Squad,’ Argel Tal spoke into the vox. ‘Make your way to Geller Generation on deck three. Squad Velash, move to support Qan Shiel.’

Affirmations crackled back. ‘Orders, sir?’ asked Sergeant Qan Shiel. ‘I... we have all heard as you heard.’

The captain swallowed.

‘Destroy the Geller Field generator. That’s an order. All Word Bearers, stand ready.’

Ninety-one seconds later, the ship gave the slightest rumble beneath their feet.

Ninety-four seconds later, it pitched to starboard, wrenched from orbit by the storm’s rage, drowning in the thrashing tides.

Ninety-seven seconds later, light died on every deck, bathing the crew and their Astartes protectors in the red gloom of emergency sirens.

Ninety-nine seconds later, every vox-channel erupted in screaming.

Ingethel uncoiled itself and launched forward, reaching for Malnor first.

Xaphen lay dead at the creature’s feet.

His spine twisted, his armour broken, a death that showed no peace in rest. A metre from his outstretched fingers, his black steel crozius rested on the deck, silent in deactivation. The corpse was cauled by its helm, its final face hidden, but the Chaplain’s scream still echoed across the vox-network.