Salamander

'Rest easy, serf,' said the Salamander. With his Astartes strength, he could lift the rebar and drag Zo'kar out. He wedged his gauntleted hands beneath it, testing his grip. But before Iagon took a proper hold he lifted his head, and his face became an emotionless mask. The Astartes reversed his grip, instead placing his hands on top of the rebar, not under it. 'Your pain is at an end,' he concluded and pushed down violently.

Zo'kar spasmed once as the rebar broke his ribs and pulped his chest and internal organs. A gush of blood erupted from his mouth, spattering his face and robe in dark droplets. Then he slumped down, his dead eyes staring glassily.

Something had struck the ship and continued to assail it, that much Iagon knew as he leapt over the wreckage and fought his way into the outer corridor. Alert sirens were blaring and the vessel was plunged into emergency half-light. The upper deck was evidently badly damaged. The destruction had spilled over into its counterpart below, where Iagon was now standing, bringing down struts in sections of the ceiling. He heard N'keln's voice coming over the vox, broken by static interference. All Astartes were being ordered to decks thirteen through twenty-six, whichever was nearest. The ship was breached and needed to be locked down. N'keln was trying to save the crew.

'Noble, but futile,' Iagon muttered, rounding a corner to find a group of human armsmen huddled around a spar of metal piercing the deck grille. As he got closer, Iagon saw a warrior in green battle-plate was pinned by it. He recognised the face of Naveem, one of Tsu'gan's main opposers. He'd torn off his helmet - it lay discarded nearby - likely to aid his breathing, judging by the sergeant's ragged gasps for air. The metal spar had impaled his chest. Going on the sheer size of it, Iagon reasoned that most of Naveem's internal organs were already ruined. The sergeant was hanging on by a sinewy thread.

'Step aside,' Iagon ordered, stalking up to the arms-men. 'You can do nothing for him.'

Buffeted by an unseen blow, the ship bucked again, throwing one of the armsmen to the ground and drawing an agonised moan from Naveem.

Iagon steadied himself against the wall.

'Go to your emergency stations,' he said. 'I will deal with this.'

The armsmen saluted then sped off uncertainly down the corridor.

Iagon loomed over the supine Naveem. The sergeant's mouth was caked with expectorated blood and dark fluid leaked from the copious cracks in his power armour.

'Brother…' he rasped upon seeing Iagon, spitting out a film of bloody vapour.

'Naveem,' Iagon replied. 'You chose the wrong side,' he added darkly.

The sergeant's expression was nonplussed as Iagon leaned in, taking both edges of the metal spar in a firm grip…

'Iagon!'

Whatever Iagon was about to do was arrested by Fugis's voice.

'Over here, Apothecary,' he bellowed with feigned concern, relaxing his grip. 'Brother Naveem is wounded.'

Fugis reached them in moments, narthecium in hand. His attention was fixed on the stricken form of Brother Naveem - he barely acknowledged Iagon at all.

Crouching over the bloodied sergeant, the Apothecary made a quick assessment. His thin face grew grave. Carefully disengaging Naveem's gorget, he took a stimm from his narthecium kit and injected a solution of pain-regressors into Naveem's carotid artery.

'It will ease your suffering, brother,' he said quietly.

Naveem tried to speak, but all that came from his mouth was near-black blood, a certain sign of internal bleeding. His breath became more ragged and his eyes widened.

Fugis pulled his bolt pistol from its holster and pressed the barrel to Naveem's forehead. An execution shot to the frontal lobe, point blank, would kill him instantly but leave both progenoids intact. Since the sergeant's chest was all but destroyed, that only left the one in Naveem's neck.

'Receive the Emperor's Peace…' he whispered. A deafening bang echoed off the corridor walls.

'There was no other choice, brother.' Iagon's tone was consoling.

'I know my duty,' Fugis snapped, going to the reductor mounted on his left gauntlet. The device consisted of a drill and miniature chainblade, designed to chew through flesh and bone to get to the progenoids buried in a Space Marine's body. A syringe, appended to a pre-sterilised capsule, would extract the necessary genetic material once the outer bone wall had been breached.

Fugis moved in, his reductor drill whirring as it bit into Naveem's dead flesh. The

Vulkan's Wrath

was shuddering badly, jolting with severe force every few seconds or so. The Apothecary fought to keep himself steady, knowing that any small mistake would see the gland destroyed and Naveem's legacy ended, just like Kadai's.

Kadai…

The unwanted memory of his captain surfaced in Fugis's mind. Suddenly, the concern he felt at the bucking ship outweighed his caution and he began to rush, fearing a sudden tremor. In his haste, he slipped. The syringe missed the progenoid and the drill sheared the gland in half, spilling it into the dead Salamander's exposed throat.

'No!' Fugis emitted a breathless cry of anguish, thumping the deck heavily with his fist. 'No, not again,' he rasped, and hung his head despairingly.

Iagon leaned in.

'It was an error, brother. No more than that.'

'I don't make errors,' Fugis hissed, his fist clenched. 'My mind is too troubled. I am no longer fit for this,' he confessed.

'You must do your duty,' Iagon urged him. 'You are needed by this company, Brother-Apothecary… as is Brother-Sergeant Tsu'gan,' he added.

Fugis looked up after a few moments when he realised what Iagon was implying. If he would turn a blind eye to Tsu'gan's masochistic affliction, then Iagon would not speak of the Apothecary's apparent frailty. Fugis was caught in a moral web of his own devising, but laid by Iagon.

Anger contorted his features. 'You bastard,' he spat.

'I prefer pragmatist,' Iagon answered smoothly. 'We can ill-afford to lose two officers.'

He offered his hand, but Fugis ignored it.

'How many more will die if you are not there to minister to them, brother?' Iagon asked him. He looked down at his still proffered hand. 'This is what seals our pact.'

'What pact?' Fugis snorted, back on his feet.

'Don't be naive,' Iagon warned him. 'You know what I mean. Take it, and I will know I have your oath.'

Fugis wavered. There was no time to consider. The ship was being ripped apart.

'Your brothers depend upon you, Apothecary.' Iagon's tone was coaxing. 'Isn't the preservation of life your credo? Ask yourself, Fugis - can you really turn your back on it?'

Fugis scowled.

'Enough!'

He knew he would regret this compact, yet what other choice did he have? Stay silent about Tsu'gan's indiscretion and compromise his ethics, his sense of moral tightness, or speak out and relinquish his position in the company? He could not allow his brothers to go into battle without an Apothecary. How many could die needlessly as a result? Hating himself, he took Iagon's hand.