Chapter 275: Mortarion Love The Exterminatus
[Unprecedented circumstances are the catalyst for adaptability. Do not waste hope on predicting every possibility. Instead—embrace it.]
— Roboute Guilliman, Principles, 17.vi
Under Roboute Guilliman's personal philosophy, the Ultramarines were never a Legion eager to employ Exterminatus.
Beyond that dreadful order, they also sought to avoid the use of phosphor weapons, radiation arms, or poison gas—anything that might scar a world beyond repair.
For the Ultramarines, war was only the necessary means of reclamation. They did not seek anything from war itself. They did not delight in the enemy's wails, nor savor glory in slaughter.
Such ideals inevitably put them at odds with certain other Legions—those who exulted in war, who reveled in destruction. In truth, Guilliman's sons already harbored their criticisms of several brethren Legions' ways of war.
And the Death Guard… just so happened to be masters of special weaponry—a Legion that had once borne the epithet of Brutal.
By all rights, the two Legions should not have worked together well.
But there are always exceptions.
. . . . .
[Exterminatus Approved]
They stood at the observation window of the Macragge's Honour, waiting for the world's final curtain to fall.
After a long discussion with Hades—measured, dispassionate, weighing interests and necessity—Guilliman had consented to this atrocity.
It was a crime that must be committed.
Another civilization erased. Whether it was their palaces, carved with care from stone, or the hawkers shouting in their marketplaces—it would all be denied existence, purged because it did not serve the Imperium's interest.
The Macragge's Honour was vast, with a well-balanced gravity system, yet Guilliman still felt the deck trembling beneath his boots. He silently counted the loading steps of the cyclonic torpedoes, each step a subtle shiver through the ship's bones.
[My lord, torpedoes loaded.]
Guilliman's lips moved twice before the word emerged: [Fire.]
No man of conscience could endure such an act.
He watched the torpedo glide quietly across the void—a bullet so small against the measureless scale of the galaxy.
Its frail exhaust flared like the last flicker of a dying campfire, marking a faint point in the dark, as it drifted closer to Absyrtus.
It pierced the planet's upper atmosphere, bursting briefly into sapphire light before continuing on, unwavering, to its calculated detonation point.
Guilliman imagined—among the wreckage his warriors had left behind—was there some soul still crawling, clinging to life, calling out hopelessly for their family?
Did the survivors believe, mistakenly, that rescue had come, that the enemy's retreat meant mercy?
. . . . .
Across the ashen earth of Absyrtus, a man dragged himself forward on shattered limbs, spending the rest of his energy searching for his missing daughter.
A whine filled his ears, rising, piercing. He looked up. A burning star was falling across the sky.
The next moment, his retinas burned with the heavens.
The atmosphere shrieked, oceans boiled, and the bright yellow-white of annihilation embraced the gray planet. Scarlet flame devoured oxygen, and every living thing shrieked in suffocating heat as death closed around them.
The world melted like glass, its crust shimmering, amber-like, crystalline.
That radiance washed through the viewing port, painting Guilliman's face in crimson fire.
He did not look away. This was the inevitable consequence of his command, and he would bear witness to it. Learn from it. So that he might better save what could still be saved.
Only after thirteen seconds of roaring inferno did Guilliman avert his gaze.
The first thing he saw was Mortarion's eyes, which were blazing hotter than Absyrtus' dying firestorm.
Mortarion's hatred toward psykers was absolute, so it should not bring him any surprise, still, Guilliman chose to quietly avert his gaze.
Then, his eyes fell upon Hades' expressionless face.
Compared to Mortarion's overflowing hatred and excitement, Guilliman could not sense the slightest ripple from Hades.
The man reminded him of the stone statues that stood before graveyards—mere witnesses and guardians, ensuring the dead lay buried rather than lingering among the living.
Guilliman pondered briefly, then turned his gaze back toward the burning planet.
As expected, when the world was aflame beyond salvation, when no living thing could possibly endure, it was Hades who spoke first, his voice light:
"It's over. We have done everything possible to eliminate this planet's pollution of the Imperium."
Guilliman glanced at Hades. Together, the two of them cast a look at Mortarion, who's still enraptured by the infernal spectacle before him.
Silently, quietly, Hades stepped back.
Catching the signal, Guilliman also retreated half a step, unobtrusively. Then he opened a private communications channel, activating ambient noise suppression at the same time.
[Next, I will take charge of Absyrtus's campaign report. But regarding the psyker portion, I require the Death Guard's assistance.]
Hades raised his brows in surprise.
He had assumed the overall report would be the Death Guard's task.
"Insofar as reason allows, the Death Guard will provide the Ultramarines with all necessary assistance in the matter of psyker suppression."
Hades spoke with measured calm.
[Then…]
Guilliman deliberately drew out the word. He recalled what Hades had told him of psychic breeds—rare, yet perilous. They were not to be understood, nor reasoned with. If encountered, they were to be destroyed.
Hades had especially emphasized never attempting to comprehend or approach their knowledge. Knowledge itself was poison, he had said with stern gravity.
As the Lord of Ultramar, as one who inherited the ashes of the Rangdan Xenocide, Guilliman may have outwardly resembled a statesman, but like Dorn, when faced with an absolute prohibition, he harbored not the slightest spark of curiosity.
Yet… Guilliman was still Guilliman. He took pride in studying and adopting the strengths of other Legions' specialized forces.
For a moment, Roboute Guilliman considered it. And he found the Death Guard's anti-psyker units very much to his liking.
And his political instinct told him that when it came to such negotiations, the Silent Sisterhood might in fact be a good partner for the Ultramarines.
[Hades, what are your thoughts on the Ultramarines seeking a friendly exchange to learn from the Death Guard's anti-psyker expertise?]
Hades fixed his eyes on Mortarion's back, the private channel keeping their words sealed.
So, Guilliman had sensed it after all. No wonder he was called a politician.
"The Death Guard are renowned for silence. I fear it would be difficult to allow the Ultramarines entry into our Legion for study."
As expected, it's a rejection. Guilliman's expression did not change, and he pressed further:
[Then what of the weapons? The Ultramarines lack arms as specialized as those of the Death Guard. Though we do not often face psykers, in every civilization there will always be a handful of them. I am most impressed with the practical value of your weapons.]
"I appreciate your recognition of these crude little inventions of mine."
Hades allowed himself a small smile.
"But regrettably, as they were devised through my own tinkering, these weapons cannot be mass-produced. Not even within the Death Guard can they be widely issued."
Guilliman studied Hades.
If he had no intention of sharing with the Ultramarines, he would never have mentioned that the designs were his own. His meaning now was clear: he could provide them—but Guilliman would have to show his sincerity.
Guilliman slipped instantly back into his most familiar battlefield: the negotiation table.
[Necessary research and the development of new equipment are of utmost importance. I am glad to see the Imperium possess talents such as yourself.]
[If you require assistance, the Ultramarines will provide it to the best of our ability—both as gratitude for the Death Guard's help in our understanding of psykers, and as respect owed to talent.]
This time, Hades allowed a bright smile to spread across his face.
"Lord Guilliman, do you know something?"
Guilliman's right eyelid twitched.
"I have always greatly admired the beauty of Macragge, the homeworld of the Ultramarines."
Guilliman knew no one with a functioning brain would say such a thing idly. His mind raced, parsing Hades' true intent.
"Others may only remark on her abundant resources and refined culture, but what truly astounds me is the thriving administration that sustains such beauty beneath the surface—"
Ah. So that was it. Guilliman understood.
——Mortarion, as if sensing something, turned his head and caught sight of the two men.
"The atmosphere of Absyrtus will continue burning for at least one standard Terran week."
Hades gave Mortarion a quick wink.
"Perhaps we can finish drafting this campaign report before it all burns away?"
[The Ultramarines can handle the bulk of the report. We possess unique experience and insight in compiling such records.]
Guilliman was quick to interject.
[Agreed.]
Mortarion spoke flatly, realizing perhaps that not everyone could fully comprehend—or take joy in—the beauty of Absyrtus's present condition.
[…Hades, you will take charge. Garro and Vox will assist you.]
Turning away again, Mortarion resumed his grim appreciation of the wailing planet. Under the purging fire, no psychic taint could possibly survive.
When he had turned back toward the spectacle, Guilliman cast Hades a glance laced with unspoken meaning—as though asking, Is this truly the right way?
Hades met the look with his dead-fish eyes.
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