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Deathwatch 2: Bad Blood – Extract

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Deathwatch 2: Bad Blood

Steve Lyons

They dropped out of the warp.

Antor heard the pitch of the ship’s engines changing, felt a shudder passing through its hull. His eyes snapped open.

The shutter over his single viewport retracted, and he could see realspace again. It had been too long. At the same time, it was too soon.

The strike cruiser Incontrovertible Truth would shortly reach its destination: two hours, maybe longer, depending on how accurate its jump had been. He wasn’t ready. His blood was running hot today and his mind was unsettled. He needed more time to cleanse himself.

He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply, sitting cross-legged on his utilitarian bunk. He tuned out all other sounds but for those of the machinery, clicking and ticking in time with his dual heartbeats. He tried not to think about the suit of power armour looming over him, its blank-eyed helm accusing.

The armour was black and silver, but for the right shoulder plate. This was a deep red and bore the image of a drop of blood with angel wings: a stark reminder of where Antor Delassio had come from, and what he still carried with him.

A reminder that he wasn’t worthy.

The Cursed Young Prince. That was what his brothers called him – at least, the handful who shared his secret, who knew of his shame. Antor had sworn to them that he could beat his curse, and indeed, he had kept it under control for months now, but it never entirely went away.

What would they say if they could see me now? he wondered.

There were needles in his veins. He could feel his blood being drawn through them into the machine: a half-rusted arcane box with switches and dials and blinking runes, and bubbling glass vials inside it. The machine was supposed to purify his blood, consecrate it and pump it back into him. He knew from experience, however, that it wouldn’t be sufficient. He also needed to meditate and pray.

He tried to clear his mind again, to meditate on the glory of the Emperor. But Antor couldn’t keep his thoughts from wandering. He couldn’t help but remember another day, four years ago. He had been aboard the Incontrovertible Truth then too, quartered in this very cabin.

The day the ship had been attacked.

The day the curse had blighted him for the very first time, and overwhelmed him.

Antor had been so proud, then.

Of course, he didn’t let it show. Such had never been his way. Many who had met him had remarked upon the contrast between this junior sergeant’s noble bearing and the quiet humility with which he unfailingly comported himself.

Still, when first he had clad himself in the black and silver, with no one but his attendant serfs to see it, he had allowed his chest to swell a little.

Chapter Master Dante himself had awarded him this great honour. Antor had been seconded to the Deathwatch for an indefinite tour of duty. He was one of the very few Blood Angels – at the time – to be welcomed into that august assemblage.

Quietly, he had thanked the Emperor for this opportunity to serve Him and had never really questioned why he, of all his battle-brothers, had been chosen. He had polished his new suit of artisan armour until it gleamed, and had always been the first of every kill team he had joined to report for muster.

He had distinguished himself in a dozen missions already, bringing down the wrath of the Emperor’s Inquisition upon the hated xenos across the galaxy.

But that day, he was roused from his sleep by the call to battle stations.

He had already begun to struggle into his armour when his cabin door flew open and a serf – a single serf – arrived to help him. He recited each invocation and performed each necessary ritual patiently. Lights flared outside his viewport. The ship shuddered with the impacts of missiles against its shields, but Antor didn’t allow that to distract him. He would have no use for his jump pack here in the ship’s narrow chambers and corridors. He inserted his vox-earpiece and sifted through the channels.

The time was an hour before morning prayers.

They had dropped out of the warp early, as Antor had slept. That meant they had probably arrived in the Erioch System of the Jericho Reach. Some of Antor’s brothers were to begin a tour of duty at the watch fortress there. Antor himself was bound for the planet Mariach, along with a new kill team, to push back the eldar raider incursions.

A vessel had been lying in wait for them. A grand cruiser.

It had likely been a proud member of the Imperial Navy, many centuries ago. The touch of Chaos had defiled it, warping its very shape. It was a bigger ship than theirs, and smaller escorts buzzed around it like flies.

Watch Captain Gharvil had launched the Thunderhawks. There had been four in the bays, a three-brother response team for each of them kept on standby at all times.

The Incontrovertible Truth carried forty-four Deathwatch Space Marines. There was little the remaining thirty-two could do, however, except prepare themselves and report for muster. Their immediate fate was in the hands of their pilots and gunners.

As Antor left his cabin, an explosion rocked the ship violently. He clung to a sconce, riveted to the wall, to keep his balance. More battle-brothers began to emerge from the doors around him.

‘That sounded close,’ said Brother Casella. He had come to the Deathwatch from the Crimson Fists; his shoulder plate bore their colours of blue and red. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that–’

Another explosion cut him off. This time, the deck plates dropped out from underneath their feet. In the moment before the artificial gravity compensated, Antor judged that they had been thrown into a lateral spin. He drew his hand flamer Ignatus, presented to him in gratitude by the Ordo Xenos, though he had no target for it.

He started to run.

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