Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

"Virtue cannot help people avoid misery. True virtue never pretends to be able to avoid suffering in the world. The more proudly he claims that he can be happy even in the midst of sin and bad things, then his virtue The more false it is." - "The Book of Lorgar".

The Astartes warriors, one of the pinnacle creations of the human Emperor's genetic engineering, hundreds of thousands, perhaps more than a million Space Marines - certainly more than that, Hatton calculated silently in his mind, watching the information in front of him. scrolled across the screen.

The Iron Warriors themselves, a legion of which they are proud, have nearly two hundred thousand Space Marines serving the Emperor. Even if the average number of other legions is only half of the Iron Warriors, they still have millions of two-and-a-half-meter Iron Brothers in the galaxy. campaign.

But there were more than just millions fighting for the Emperor, Haton thought. Tens of millions? Hundreds of millions? It may never be fully calculated.

From the Astropathic Choir, the Navigator family - are they really mortals, to the legion auxiliary army, and even some technicians and clerical staff, servants, craftsmen, the gardeners who pruned the nursery in Cheorwon and the people who deserve to be thanked ten thousand times The cooks... they were warriors of another kind, dedicated and dedicated, forming a shadowy substance behind the striding figures of the Astartes, following closely.

By the way, Hatton knew that many people felt that they were just small cogs or nails under the Emperor's command, making their own insignificant contributions to the plan of conquering the galaxy. He understood their loyalty and passion, as the food inside the Iron Warriors fleet was indeed better than on the surface of Terra.

Okay, he thought, flexing his neck and hearing a small clicking sound. He admitted that the fundamental reason why he praised others was just to boast, so that he could barely take a breath from his work, otherwise the large amount of text scrolling on the screen and the dark curves rolling below would almost make him dizzy.

The cool metallic smell in the air disappeared long after their work began, and the noisy hum filled every gap between machines. Lord Perturabo had not come to inspect the situation in the communications hall for several months. , the opportunity to do general cleaning was lost. There were so many cables on the ground that it was almost a natural trap.

Just next to Hatton, dozens of typists were busy working on their work, squirting ink on the surface of memo sheets scattered one after another. Supervisors stepped on anti-gravity modular boards to shuttle and float, skimming Passed by every clerk who stared intently at the office supplies they had on hand.

A high percentage of cogitators within the Iron Warriors fleet function automatically, and clerks don't have to actually put their hands on the round buttons of their typewriters, trying in vain to keep up with the speed at which the Space Marines speak, or use their brains to push the information through. The passwords are then processed in a more conventional way and then sent to the location where they are supposed to go.

However, he proofread the printed manuscripts, entered the songs sung by the Astropaths into the computing system, immediately relayed the requirements and reports sent back to the command base by the Space Marines, stamped, stamped, and filed them, and from time to time he was asked by the people next door. The Soul Palace took away a few workers who seemed too idle and were not mechanically connected to the terminal to help them transmit various work texts, bring a cup of coffee or other drinks to the choir who were idle, and other series of tasks. Then they obviously have to be held responsible.

"Quadrant 3, request for light cruiser support," the typist beside him muttered to himself. His staff calibrated an automatic recognition error for the voices sent back by Space Marines in battle, and stuffed the printed note into the swimming pool. In the hands of the servitor, "No, relay it to the Luna Wolf. This is not a message for us. Who sent it wrong..."

Hatton looked away from the voyage log and spacecraft inspection report in the upper right corner of the screen. The colors there were too colorful. The urgency of the situation and the source of the information affected the color depth and category of the information respectively.

He retrieved copies of the information that he was supposed to be responsible for. The first was a bright yellow communication that needed to be sent to the War Blacksmith's desktop. The content of the automatic sorting given by the Thinker is the raw data of the intelligence obtained by a commando team. The team number is twenty-three. The main content transmitted includes various pictures they took.

Hatton took one look and decided to pretend he hadn't seen it all. During his many years of service in the fleet, he had seen many images and words that were enough to insult the empire, but the death scenes of those Space Marines illuminated by a single source of light still shocked him. In his heart, those usually tall and glorious warriors huddled so fragilely inside gray-yellow ellipses, like butterflies dying in cocoons, and were not lucky enough to complete their second birth.

"No. 04513," his team leader sent a cold warning. Hatton immediately returned to work, knowing that this mistake would earn him a lengthy review document. He felt guilty about this and quickly moved the touch screen at hand to transfer the checked communication content to another target communication line.

He then processed a series of basic information. The density of communication climbed to a peak. More than eight hours had passed since the moment of gang jumping. Each team that was performing gang jumping missions successively sent back the key they had obtained. Information, or team-wide death information, the former is in the yellow series, and the latter is in black or gray.

Hatton only felt that the scrolling text bar was attacking his brain like a rain curtain of another kind of ammunition, and his long-trained thinking seemed to be separated from his lagging subjective consciousness, completing every task quickly and accurately. .

He vaguely heard the typist beside him start talking to himself again. If he had extra energy now, he would definitely tease the typist about whether he slept through the induction training.

"...Call for rescue boats," Hatton distinguished these words, or they automatically entered his mind, "Team 23...Evacuate."

His fingers flexibly slid across the touchpad, and messages were redistributed one by one, dark yellow, light yellow, black, and the next one, black again. Black messages mean death confirmation signals from other teams about a certain team, and gray is the automatic feedback from the armor after verifying that the soldiers inside have lost signs of life. The number of confirmed deaths is rising, and the numbers are jumping, establishing a vague impression in Hatton's mind.

The death rate in this round of combat is higher than the previous battles in Randan. At the same time, some enemy ships have not had new transmissions for more than a few hours. After simple reasoning, it can be known that this may mean that there are no surviving soldiers on them.

The next message is the brightest yellow, forwarded from the terminal to his screen. Hatton read it quickly, first scanning ten lines at a glance, and then he re-included the first word in the scope of careful reading, trying to find an emotion to ease his surprise and confusion.

"04513?" The team leader called his number again, but his hand could not move any further, just as nothing could wake him up from his stillness. Hatton was frozen, shocked by the information he understood, and a horrifying shock pierced his heart like a bone spur.

The team leader stepped over the mess on the ground and walked towards him aggressively.

"What's going on?" he asked, with an annoyed light flashing on his metal jaw. He bent down and looked at the machine screen in front of Hatton, reading the information he saw. Then, the team leader froze in front of the screen like him, his heartbeat was as anxious as his.

"No," the team leader whispered, took a deep breath, and slid his hand that had already entered the biological detection information on the touch screen next to Hatton's hand, and once again ordered the Thinker to decode the secret order.

Soon, the Thinker spit out the verified information again, and the golden words were imprinted in the center of the screen, and the standard serif font commonly used within the Iron Warriors was reflected in the retinas of the two. It was almost a scar.

"No..." the team leader said for the second time.

He trembled and wanted to re-verify the content of the message again. Decoding errors had not appeared in the communication center for a long time, but that was not absolute. They proudly called themselves unconscious cogs of the Imperial machine to show their loyal humility, but his personal thoughts became so conspicuous at this time.

Hatton squeezed the team leader's hand away, and his offense was not reprimanded. No. 04513 is fulfilling his duties.

+++Communication Brief 1353/IW/Rd+++

To: Vengeful Spirit Strategy Room, Unyielding Truth Strategy Room, Iron Blood Command Room, Faith Law Wanderer Temple

From: Rd Theater 5th Joint Operation 23rd Assault Team

In the core area of ​​the enemy ship, we dissected a section of the left ring finger from the alien's body, with a small amount of uncorroded muscle tissue. Judging from the size, this finger bone came from a gene Primarch.

+++End of communication++

Lorgar sat on the steps beside the altar, staring at the black iron square box in his hand.

The rescue team closest to the 23rd Squadron came from the Word Bearers. Based on the information provided in the communication, he brought the team back to the fleet and cleaned their appearance according to the reference process provided by Perturabo, allowing them to rest. And the harvest and discovery they brought naturally went to the Wandering Temple.

He held a part of the skeleton of a distant brother in his hands, waiting for his other brothers to arrive as promised. The box was in his hands, silent, silent, and silent. Even the bright golden light in the temple could not illuminate it brightly enough.

It announced a meaning related to the end, and Lorgar Aurelion could perceive its inner things at a certain metaphysical level.

Lorgar closed his eyes and felt the distant tranquility and dim call.

In the echo of the Iron Holy City, Perturabo's advice to him echoed in his mind day after day, questioning his past behavior.

In deep repentance and guilt, he soon realized that the reason why he insisted on calling the Emperor God was rooted in his misunderstanding of the relationship between humans, angels and God.

He often thought that he was a leader, the first spirit to connect with Him, leading those who came later to the same path of service as him and his brothers. He was above all things, so he thought it was disrespectful to Him to call Him a man. No, his narrow vision and invisible vanity made him make mistakes in interpretation.

He once said: The offspring of the woman will bruise the head of the serpent. The subject of this sentence is not only the Son of Man, but a broad reference to the offspring born by mortal women, that is, the human group.

He declared that humans would defeat the devil, not the angels; the future world he spoke of was not originally given to the angels to rule. He personally became flesh and blood. He made the Son of Man lower than the angels for a while, and gave him dominion over all the works of his hands, so that all things would be subject to him. He did not save the angels, but the descendants of Abraham.

At this level, comparing humans to angels, that is, comparing humans to Astartes, humans have a higher status.

If an angel fails in serving humans, his merits will be counted based on the amount he has given to humans.

Lorgar thought as he looked at the box in his hand.

The realization made Lorgar Aurelion's heart sour. He slowly recovered his emotions and told himself to listen to what He said to him through Perturabo's mouth. His willingness to advise him was a sign of His infinite mercy.

Then, who are they to serve? Lorgar continued to think, placing his hand on his brother's holy box. Should those who do not believe in Him also serve?

No, His children are not born of blood, nor are they born of human will, but are born from Him. They are born of the Holy Spirit through faith and are connected to Him through belief. Therefore, those who are willing to believe in Him will be served by them.

Thinking of this, Lorgar's face reappeared with a gentle smile. He believed that if the Lord of the Second Legion had passed away, he died for a reasonable reason, and died to care for and guide mankind.

This is a respectable thing, a path worth emulating and envying, and it is not sad.

But his eyes were still getting wet. Unexplainably, Lorgar's tears filled his eyes when he opened the black iron box and saw the bloody finger bone. He wiped it away hastily.

At the entrance of the Wandering Temple, several footsteps sounded, accompanied by the loud voice of Horus Lupercal.

Lorgar stood up with the box in his arms and stood there to greet his brothers.

The wolf god broke the pure peace in the temple. He took steps, waved his arms, and excitedly debated with Lion El'Jonson who walked side by side with him.

Perturabo followed behind them, looking down at the data tablet he carried with him.

"I don't understand why you say that, Lion," Horus growled, "He's missing! His life or death is unknown, and we all know he's in a bad situation. Shouldn't we speed up our advance and get deeper into this alien empire as soon as possible? Isn't what we have to do now to find him, rescue him, or at least find his remaining remains?"

"The Emperor's first order to us is to destroy Randan, so there is no reason for us to advance rashly." The Lion King said, "The Second Legion is a secondary task, and from the current evidence, he is already dead, so your urgency is meaningless, Horus."

"I totally disagree with you, Lion! He is our blood relative, one of our only brothers in the universe..."

"You are affected by the new evidence," Lion replied impatiently, "so much so that you forget the Emperor's order behind you."

Horus stopped and said in disbelief: "Me?"