Deliverance Lost

His existence became a blur of work, every waking hour filled with the crackle of arc-welders, the smell of livery paint, the squeal of pneumatic ratchets and the heat of the ceramite kilns.

Binalt was intrigued by the wargear that he came across, some of it very familiar, some of it of radically different design, issued to other Legions from dozens of forge-worlds across the Imperium. As best he could, he cobbled together repairs for the Mark IV suits of armour worn by the majority of his comrades, bastardising pieces from the older Mark II and III suits taken from the bodies of Word Bearers, Iron Warriors and World Eaters. Nothing was perfect and every patch and jury-rig came only with the assurance that it would last a battle or two, should the Avengerencounter the enemy again before reaching Terra.

THERE WAS LITTLE enough aboard the Avengerto work with, so compromises had to be made. Most of the Legion’s armoured vehicles had been destroyed or abandoned at the Urgall plateau, so spare parts for tanks and transports were not in short supply. Binalt and his fellow Techmarines devised a way to reinforce the armour they had created, using the molecular bonding studs usually employed for affixing armour and ablative plates to Rhinos and Predators. This gave the suits a particular appearance, the shoulder guards sealed with rows of large rivets that looked like nodules or blisters. Other vehicle parts – transmission cabling, servos, even spare track links – were pressed into service as makeshift components for the new armour design.

Slowly the legionaries started to look like Raven Guard again. Greaves, plastrons, shoulder guards and vambraces that had sported the colours of all the Legions that had fought on Isstvan were painted in the black of the Raven Guard, insignia lovingly applied, each stroke of brush or sweep of spray obliterating the colours of former friend and foe alike, as if the Legion were cleansing itself of the memories by covering their marks with their own livery.

Spare time was in short supply, and in the few breaks he had, Binalt contemplated another, more personal project. He had secured himself a small space between two of the starboard gun towers, a noisy little chamber that reverberated with the clankof the auto-loaders and drummed with the feet of the crew as they performed their gun drills, ever ready for battle.

There was room only for a small worktop and a set of shelves – no chair for Binalt, so he stood instead. The Techmarine looked at the large pile of broken parts gathered on the table and wondered where he would begin. Pieces of shattered ceramite and twisted metal sat under nuts and bolts and a nest of wires and cables. Here and there he could identify a servo or actuator or muscle-like fibre bundle, all systems he was used to dealing with in a suit of power armour, but fashioned in a way he had never encountered elsewhere.

He admired the beauty of the craftsmanship even as he marvelled at the engineering and design that had been laboured upon the haphazard scattering of pinions and power relays.

Binalt started by sorting through all of the parts, splitting them into piles by form and function, leaving some aside whose purpose he had not yet divined. Day by day, sometimes snatching only a few minutes at a time when others were gratefully taking their allotted few hours of rest, he began to make sense of the mess. Alone with his thoughts, bringing rational observation to emotions thrown into disorder by recent events, he contemplated the nature of the daunting project he had chosen to undertake and broke it down into achievable goals. It was relaxing in an odd way, removing the Techmarine from the clutter of the Legion and the memories of Isstvan; a perfectly self-contained sphere in which he could operate, with definable outcomes all within his control.

It would be a long time until he was finished – perhaps longer than he would survive – but Binalt was determined, filled with a need to do this particular work of artifice. If he could complete this, the world would be right again, and his existence would make sense once more.

There was little to do except drill, eat and rest. The Avengerhad translated from Isstvan seventy days ago and the warp storms were making progress slow. Alpharius worked with his squad, each day learning more about them and more about the person he was supposed to be.

He had heard rumours that they were not going to Deliverance, but were en route to Terra. The thought intrigued, excited and worried him in equal measure. He had never been to Old Earth, and for many years had aspired to do so. Before the twin primarchs had commanded that the Legion back Horus, Alpharius had often quizzed the older Alpha Legio

Alpharius knew that his loyalties were now to a different cause, but the thought of being close to the Emperor still sent a thrill through him, matched only by the pleasure he had experienced on being singled out by the true Alpharius for this mission. The primarch had taken him into his confidence and explained the nature of the Legion’s change of allegiance. The Emperor had, perhaps unwittingly, betrayed his sons and their Legions. He had abandoned them, and in turn had allowed the Great Crusade to falter. The primarch could not explain why this had happened, but had been adamant that Horus would set mankind back on the path of the Imperial Truth.

Alpharius wondered if he would get a glimpse of the Emperor, and then fretted that if he were brought into the Imperial presence, his duplicitous nature might be revealed. Surely a man as gifted as the Master of Mankind would not be fooled by an altered face and name change?

More than that, Alpharius’s guise was Terran-born. What if the others born of Terra – only a handful left after the massacre but still alive the nonetheless – saw some flaw in his disguise; what if he betrayed his lack of knowledge to the other Terrans?

There was little time to worry about the future, Alpharius had to stay constantly alert to maintain the facade he had adopted. He was fortunate in one sense: his new self had a reputation for being taciturn, and this meant he was not expected to speak much. With the help of the Apothecaries and the material absorbed by his omophagea, his vocal chords and mouth had been reshaped to better resemble that of the legionary whose identity he had assumed, but to the keen ears of a Space Marine, any small difference might give rise to suspicion.

His greatest defence, shared by the others he hoped had also succeeded in their infiltration, was in the unlikelihood of what the Alpha Legion had done. Why would any Raven Guard suspect that their foes had taken on the faces of the fallen? It was a wonderful machination by the primarch and so characteristic of his genius. For another legionary to have doubts about Alpharius’s true nature was to invite thoughts of paranoia. It was so improbable that any suspicion without good evidence was likely to be dismissed out of hand.

Alpharius bent his mind to ensuring there would be no evidence, training and eating and sleeping alongside his adopted Legion. He showed pride as his ragtag armour was replaced, speaking words of vengeance and swearing oaths of loyalty to the Emperor and Lord Corax alongside his new brothers-in-arms while they repainted their icons.

There had been a few occasions when Alpharius had come close to revealing himself. Each day he learned a little more – small ma

His latest close call had come during a hand-to-hand combat drill. The company had gathered in one of the hangar bays, amongst the dormant shapes of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds – the Avenger’s dedicated training chambers being insufficient for the large number of warriors on board.