Chapter 29: Saints and Typhon
Inside the Ninth Legion's great fortress, an assembly hall designed for ideological instruction held ranks of Blood Angels in perfect formation. Hundreds of warriors in crimson power armor stood motionless, creating an atmosphere more like a cathedral than a military installation.
The aesthetic reinforced this deliberate design.
Blood Angel banners dominated the walls, each bearing their distinctive symbol: a blood-red droplet suspended between angelic white wings. These warriors inhabited a space made sacred through repeated ritual and symbolic weight.
Row after row of crimson helmets caught the light, hundreds of gleaming surfaces creating an almost hypnotic uniformity.
On the elevated platform, a Great Captain of the Blood Angels spoke the oath with measured solemnity. His voice—deep, resonant, carrying absolute conviction—recited the fundamental tenets: loyalty to the Emperor, dedication to the sacred mission.
Again and again the words came, building through repetition into something beyond mere language, a ritual burning itself into their very minds, as though loyalty were being seared directly into consciousness.
The assembled Blood Angels responded in unison, voices merging into rhythmic chant. The repetition served its purpose: loyalty and mission would become as fundamental as breathing, encoded beyond doubt or questioning.
Among these fervent warriors, none recognized the two infiltrators embedded within the formation.
Omegon, wearing blue-gray power armor, participated with genuine interest in the Blood Angels' ideological framework. He mouthed the oath alongside his hosts, carefully analyzing this legion's unique cultural expression, their values made manifest through ritual.
An hour of repetition sufficed.
When the assembly ended, Omegon and Alpharius moved with the departing Blood Angels, processing through fortress corridors in perfect synchronization.
Sunlight fell across armored forms as they moved in absolute silence, the movement itself becoming a meditation on discipline.
The mess hall reflected the same aesthetic: order, precision, unity. The warriors settled into a seated formation with practiced simultaneity. Servitors began distributing food, a specialized porridge containing ceramite and ceramic derivatives, each portion identical.
Significantly, the Blood Angels didn't eat immediately. They remained upright, holding formation until every warrior had been served. The discipline was remarkable: hunger secondary to order.
Omegon absorbed the implications. This legion had transformed military discipline into something approaching monastic devotion.
Then he arrived.
A figure in golden power armor entered through the central portal. His physiology transcended baseline human form, he moved with unnatural grace, and authentic angelic wings, crafted from white material, extended from his shoulders.
His face held beauty that seemed almost inhuman in its perfection, and in his hand he carried a longsword of dark red, darkened by countless battles.
Every movement radiated something beyond mere physical grace. Omegon instantly recognized the source of the Blood Angels' devotion.
This was Sanguinius, The Primarch, commanding the Ninth Legion.
If Lion El'Jonson's bearing communicated kingly authority, Sanguinius manifested something entirely different —a presence suggesting the divine beings that ordinary humanity had worshipped across countless worlds.
The Blood Angels' internal energy shifted subtly, yet they remained perfectly still.
Ordinary humans harbored a deep psychological yearning for angelic figures, beings that represented transcendence and virtue. This explained Sanguinius's popularity among civilians. The appearance of actual angelic form—feathered wings, perfect features—activated something primal in human consciousness.
Yet the Blood Angels possessed advantages beyond civilian populations.
Though enhanced to transhuman capability, they retained enough humanity to recognize genuine majesty. Confronted with Sanguinius's undeniable beauty and power, they experienced something transcending mere obedience.
It approached religious devotion.
The genetic instability in their gene-seed created particular anxiety. The Red Thirst afflicted every Blood Angel warrior, a biological corruption that Sanguinius himself didn't carry. They feared their Primarch's contempt for their flawed nature.
Sanguinius didn't offer contempt.
Instead, he embraced his sons despite their affliction, showing acceptance and compassion. In their eyes, he became something approaching an angel, a redemptive figure whose presence somehow sanctified their inherent corruption.
This singular fact had crystallized absolute loyalty beyond mere military obedience. Only dedication to such a magnificent father could repay his acceptance of their flawed essence.
Now, as Sanguinius walked through the mess hall, something registered in his perception, a sensation defying easy description, his precognitive abilities manifested occasionally, offering glimpses of probability and danger.
This sensation differed: less prophecy than troubling intuition.
'Something pure has been contaminated. Something fundamental feels wrong.' His first concern turned toward his Blood Angels.
Sanguinius moved through the formation, even passing close to Omegon's position. Yet the concealment held. Even Primarch-level senses couldn't penetrate Alpharius's methods.
Omegon felt Sanguinius's attention sweep over him, a disturbing moment of exposure. His enhanced discipline and psychological training proved adequate to maintain outward calm.
When Sanguinius completed his inspection without incident, Omegon's internal assessment crystallized: 'Alpharius has done this before. Sanguinius's abilities can't penetrate his concealment.'
Yet Sanguinius chose not to voice his concern to his warriors.
Instead, he demonstrated the magnanimity expected of a Primarch, his voice commanding the hall: "Sit."
The word echoed with absolute authority. Hundreds of Blood Angels sat simultaneously and began eating their porridge in perfect unison.
After the meal ended, the Blood Angels dispersed toward approved recreational activities. Omegon and Alpharius used this dispersion to conduct their tactical withdrawal from the fortress.
In his private quarters high in the fortress tower, Sanguinius stood in full golden armor, gazing out across Terra's sprawling expanse.
The view offered singular beauty, an entire planet bearing the mark of human civilization, each district representing centuries of accumulated infrastructure and culture. Or perhaps he examined his fortress's security protocols, ensuring the safety of his Blood Angels.
The sensation had troubled him before, irregular incidents without a clear pattern or meaning. He considered the distinction between his two forms of precognitive awareness.
"Maybe not prophecy," he said aloud. "A revelation, perhaps. Nothing more."
Prophecies came with specific imagery and detailed information. Revelations, unless personally decoded, remained maddeningly obscure, potential representations of infinite possibility.
The Imperium's systems couldn't adequately process such ambiguous warnings. Sanguinius let the matter go.
Along the fortress's main avenue, two Primarchs of the Alpha Legion held casual conversation while analyzing comparative nutritional compositions.
Omegon, with acute sensory ability in food preparation, noted that the Blood Angels' porridge incorporated significant medicinal compounds specifically targeting blood regeneration and clotting function.
At this moment, a Space Marine in distinctive yellow-green power armor approached.
His physiology emphasized upper body mass, suggesting formidable combat capability despite the apparent weight concentration. The warrior's bearing indicated casual patrol rather than any urgent purpose.
Alpharius and Omega recognized him immediately: Typhon, First Captain commanding the Fourteenth Legion's forward operations—the Death Guard.
Typhon's assessment of the two figures was swift and accurate. His response came measured and deliberate: "Alpha Legion Ghost Warriors. You seem satisfied."
"Good food will always be a source of appropriate satisfaction," Omegon replied with ease.
The question probed for deeper intent. Alpharius maintained observant silence, letting Omegon deal with the interaction.
Typhon showed clear satisfaction with the response.
Communication between legions remained rare even to this day, particularly given the Alpha Legion's deliberately obscured structure. Establishing basic conversation represented a tactical advantage.
Typhon's next question came directly: "Has your Primarch returned to Terra yet?"
Omegon gave a direct answer before shifting the conversation's direction: "No. You're fortunate with Lord Mortarion as legion commander. I understand the Death Guard specializes extensively in chemical warfare. Are you concerned about civilian casualty rates from such methods?"
Typhon's expression hardened with contempt. "Fortune is irrelevant for Astartes warriors. The Death Guard requires capable leadership, which Primarch Mortarion and I provide adequately. As for casualties—" He paused, his voice dropping into something approaching philosophy.
"In warfare, no combatant qualifies as innocent. Victory justifies substantial cost. War inherently generates casualties. This is a fundamental truth."
"The Alpha Legion must have witnessed warfare's cruelty and death's terror extensively."
At this precise moment, a figure approached from the corridor's opposite direction. Massive frame enclosed in power armor, a distinctive upward-braided beard, and a weapon suggesting steppe heritage, all combined to create an impression of unrestrained martial confidence.
The warrior paused intentionally, regarding Typhon with meaningful expression.
Omegon observed the newcomer's arrival with analytical precision, then responded to Typhon with calculated argument: "Warfare permits substantial variation in method. Sophisticated tactics combined with chemical weapons might achieve superior results while minimizing casualties. Though death remains inevitable, the Alpha Legion consistently pursues maximum victory relative to cost."
Typhon's response carried domineering certainty. His ideology regarded death as fundamentally inevitable, whether through yellow-green chemical fog or conventional weapons; the outcome remained identical.
From his perspective, elaborate tactics represented unnecessary sophistication.
Yet rather than dismissing Omegon's argument outright, Typhon responded with unexpected enthusiasm: "You present an interesting perspective, brother. If you require any chemical agent samples, I welcome your company."
"My own personal arsenal is very comprehensive; you can find every conceivable compound for achieving optimal lethality. Experience such agents yourself, and you will understand that warfare requires no complicated philosophy."
"Simplicity proves optimal. Maximum death yields maximum victory."
He continued with apparent satisfaction: "Brother Death possesses an inherent elegance in itself. Against such certainty, tactics become meaningless elaborations."
[End of Chapter]