Duty’s End
Robin Cruddace
The world turned black.
His vision returned moments later. The Space Marine had not been unconscious for long – he could tell that from the debris still falling from the explosion. There was an elusive thought at the back of his brain, a question that refused to surface, but then he took his first breath of air and pain stabbed through his chest. With an effort, he picked himself up from the blood-slicked mud and almost fell as his body doubled over in agony.
Something is wrong. You are of the Adeptus Astartes and should not have felt pain like that, not unless…
With a thought, he activated his auto-senses’ medicae augurs. A multitude of red lights flashed in front of his eyes, warning him that the damage to his body was severe. His secondary heart had stopped beating, his Larraman’s organ was failing and massive internal bleeding had been detected. The warning sigils continued to flash urgently for a few seconds, but then the Space Marine blink-clicked the display away. He didn’t need an Apothecary to interpret the extent of the damage. He was losing blood quickly, his genhanced body unable to stem the tide. He was dying, and fast. The knowledge brought with it a calmingpeace, and then the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind suddenly swam into clarity.
What is your name?
He looked down at his body, the coating of mud and blood not quite obscuring the red and yellow of his battle-scarred power armour. Howling Griffon, Scion of Guilliman, Angel of Death. He was all these things, but they were titles, not names. The Space Marine surveyed the mist-wreathed battlefield, unsure of where exactly he was. A great battle had certainly been fought here, for he could see several other armoured figures lying dead in the churned mud. They were his battle-brothers. He could name each and every one of them and recall fighting at their side on a hundred worlds.
So why can’t you remember your name?
A shape loomed on the edge of his vision, pushing through the pall shrouding the battlefield. The figure resolved into an over-muscled, green-skinned brute, the unmistakable sight of an ork. Several others lumbered up behind the first, and as soon as they caught sight of the Space Marine they bellowed deep-throated war cries and charged.
The sight of the orks jogged something in his brain, a memory of his captain issuing orders. ‘Hold the line’, he had said simply. ‘Secure the beachhead until the company reaches your position. The greenskins must not break through.’
Thoughts of his name were put aside for a time. The enemy was upon him and he had a duty to perform.
He moved without thinking, bringing his bolter up in a smooth arc and drawing a bead on the shape at the lead of the mob. He pulled the trigger and the weapon roared. The Space Marine could see the bolt-round fly towards its target, see the infinitesimal delay between punching through the ork’s skull and blowing it apart from the inside. The headless corpse toppled forwards, a red mist hanging in the air as the body pitched into the mud. He was already tracking his bolter to the right, aiming at the next alien savage. The bolter barked again and again, each shot a hammer blow that punched another shape from its feet. Four more orks fell in quick succession, yet three more came on, iron-shod boots trampling the slain deeper into the blood-soaked muck.
The Howling Griffon drew a careful bead on the nearest ork, lining his bolter’s sights between the alien’s eyes before pulling the trigger. He heard a click. It was a small sound, but echoed loudly in his ears. He was dimly aware of a meter flashing zero on his helmet’s lens, a peripheral image that brought unbidden a flash of an ancient memory: a grizzled sergeant chastising him as a recruit for making just such an error.
How can you remember that but not your name?
A roar snapped his attention back to the now, the first greenskin mere strides from him,
Robin Cruddace
The world turned black.
His vision returned moments later. The Space Marine had not been unconscious for long – he could tell that from the debris still falling from the explosion. There was an elusive thought at the back of his brain, a question that refused to surface, but then he took his first breath of air and pain stabbed through his chest. With an effort, he picked himself up from the blood-slicked mud and almost fell as his body doubled over in agony.
Something is wrong. You are of the Adeptus Astartes and should not have felt pain like that, not unless…
With a thought, he activated his auto-senses’ medicae augurs. A multitude of red lights flashed in front of his eyes, warning him that the damage to his body was severe. His secondary heart had stopped beating, his Larraman’s organ was failing and massive internal bleeding had been detected. The warning sigils continued to flash urgently for a few seconds, but then the Space Marine blink-clicked the display away. He didn’t need an Apothecary to interpret the extent of the damage. He was losing blood quickly, his genhanced body unable to stem the tide. He was dying, and fast. The knowledge brought with it a calmingpeace, and then the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind suddenly swam into clarity.
What is your name?
He looked down at his body, the coating of mud and blood not quite obscuring the red and yellow of his battle-scarred power armour. Howling Griffon, Scion of Guilliman, Angel of Death. He was all these things, but they were titles, not names. The Space Marine surveyed the mist-wreathed battlefield, unsure of where exactly he was. A great battle had certainly been fought here, for he could see several other armoured figures lying dead in the churned mud. They were his battle-brothers. He could name each and every one of them and recall fighting at their side on a hundred worlds.
So why can’t you remember your name?
A shape loomed on the edge of his vision, pushing through the pall shrouding the battlefield. The figure resolved into an over-muscled, green-skinned brute, the unmistakable sight of an ork. Several others lumbered up behind the first, and as soon as they caught sight of the Space Marine they bellowed deep-throated war cries and charged.
The sight of the orks jogged something in his brain, a memory of his captain issuing orders. ‘Hold the line’, he had said simply. ‘Secure the beachhead until the company reaches your position. The greenskins must not break through.’
Thoughts of his name were put aside for a time. The enemy was upon him and he had a duty to perform.
He moved without thinking, bringing his bolter up in a smooth arc and drawing a bead on the shape at the lead of the mob. He pulled the trigger and the weapon roared. The Space Marine could see the bolt-round fly towards its target, see the infinitesimal delay between punching through the ork’s skull and blowing it apart from the inside. The headless corpse toppled forwards, a red mist hanging in the air as the body pitched into the mud. He was already tracking his bolter to the right, aiming at the next alien savage. The bolter barked again and again, each shot a hammer blow that punched another shape from its feet. Four more orks fell in quick succession, yet three more came on, iron-shod boots trampling the slain deeper into the blood-soaked muck.
The Howling Griffon drew a careful bead on the nearest ork, lining his bolter’s sights between the alien’s eyes before pulling the trigger. He heard a click. It was a small sound, but echoed loudly in his ears. He was dimly aware of a meter flashing zero on his helmet’s lens, a peripheral image that brought unbidden a flash of an ancient memory: a grizzled sergeant chastising him as a recruit for making just such an error.
How can you remember that but not your name?
A roar snapped his attention back to the now, the first greenskin mere strides from him,
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