On the lower flight deck of the Iron Fury, Decimus was already waiting, leaning against some stacked crates. When the Lord Commander entered, he straightened up and grabbed his gear. He didn’t even bother to salute. Although he held a higher rank, most members of the Ordo Custodum regarded each other as equal brothers. This practice was rooted not only in their military order structure but also in the fact that they were, genetically speaking, actual brothers. They all descended from the same base gene-seed.

  The transhuman soldiers of the Ordo Custodum are bred in the capital of mankind – Terra. Some fleets – especially those far removed from Terra – carry with them the sacred gene-seed of the First Custos. This allows them to breed new soldiers aboard their great battlecruisers even in the farthest reaches of the galaxy. These facts, however, remained well-guarded secrets of the Order. Not only because the gene-seed could be endangered, but also because ordinary humans would not understand. If they knew that the Custodes were simply bred, they would accuse the Order of cowardice, since it was always hesitant to commit its warriors to battle. But the truth is, even though the transhuman soldiers are bred, only a few actually become Custodes. Many die before birth, some are genetically defective, and most fail the trials. The rest – the unworthy – are either killed or made into servants of the Order. Those who survive the trials and ascend to become Custodes are usually promised a long and glorious future.

  “Glorious?” Marcelus thought to himself. That’s what they had always told him. But even as Lord Commander of the Outer Core, victorious general of countless campaigns, butcher of xenos hordes, he didn’t feel glorious. Worse still, he felt lost.

  “Who was Titian Marcelus?” he wondered.

  Lost in thought, he walked alongside Decimus. The Custos immediately sensed that something was wrong, but said nothing for now, not wanting to question his brother’s honor.

  They marched across the flight deck. Metal clanged against metal. Marcelus’ eyes landed on their transport, which was still being refueled. In the background, he heard the faint humming of the shield generators – a calming sound before battle. They ensured that the hangar remained free of the vacuum of space. A thin, pale-blue energy layer clung to the openings like skin. It was the only thing keeping the cruel void of space at bay, shimmering under the pressure of its burden.

  As the two approached the smaller vehicle, a tunnel of kneeling servants formed. They bowed their heads in reverence. Marcelus would have told them, “Raise your heads, brothers.” But he didn’t want to grandstand – so he remained silent.

  The magnetic soles of their boots activated automatically as they stepped onto the ramp. Though it was just the two of them – not counting the servants and support personnel – the passenger area of the transport was rather full. In their armor, the Custodes stood three meters tall, and they were not exactly slim. No wonder some humans referred to them simply as “living statues.”

  A deep rumble shook Marcelus as the transport’s engines roared to life. Uninvolved servants scurried to safety to avoid the flames. The grav-servos lifted the vehicle from the deck and brought it into a hover. It moved forward slowly until it reached the pale-blue skin. Carefully, it glided through the inner shield. Once free, its engines powered up to maximum.

  The mechanical servants piloting the transport emitted satisfied-sounding noises. That calmed Marcelus, who now leaned his head back and, through closed eyes, saw only the past.

  Rhiv was on his way to the large storage hall to check on the stockpile of support weapons and vehicles. Castinus had told him that there were allegedly some tanks on board. He wasn’t a big fan of tanks – he considered them outdated – but he couldn’t deny the mobile protection they offered to ground troops. He wondered how he might use them – assuming they even existed.

  Slightly absentminded, he bumped into a servant of the Logisticum. The man was immediately outraged by the scattered crates. Rhiv shook his head. He had more important things to do than argue with the embodiment of hated bureaucracy.

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  After a while, he passed the mid-level gun deck. Here, he saw the teeth of the Iron Fury for the first time – massive energy cannons. They filled the entire length of the outer corridor. Servants rushed to carry human-sized munitions through the halls, driven on by shouting officers. He examined the cannons’ projectiles more closely. Large cylinders – they reminded him of gas canisters or perhaps oversized batteries. He had heard that a single energy bolt from these guns could slice a frigate in half. If he was honest, he didn’t quite believe these rumors, yet the sight was breathtaking.

  With some melancholy, he recalled what he had learned at the academy: that a war machine like this was worth more than any individual soldier.

  “A human worth less than a machine,” he thought grimly.

  Rhiv took one last look at the death-dealing giants and wondered if he would ever see them in action. He hoped not, but he still wished it.

  A mechanical tone snapped Marcelus out of his thoughts. They would arrive at the wreck’s flight deck in a few moments. He looked to his side. Decimus’ foot was already twitching nervously. The Custos hadn’t seen combat in a while due to his amputated leg, and now he could barely wait. The Lord Commander felt his mouth water. Despite their appearance as noble demigods, the Custodes were, deep down, just brutal war machines.

  Marcelus had often asked himself whether they could truly be considered human – but despite his enhanced mind, he remained without an answer.

  “Steady yourself, brother,” he said softly.

  Decimus turned his gaze toward him. “I’ll try. But do not judge me for our nature, Lord,” he replied with a dry throat.

  A jolt signaled that they had passed the ship’s shield. The door to the passenger compartment opened, and a handful of servants entered. They carried the weapons of the Custodes. Decimus took his Phobos rifle. Marcelus reached for his laspistol. Wrapped in red cloth and blessed with incense, the Lord Commander was presented with his energy sword Invictus. He fastened the scabbard to his belt, beside grenades and extra ammunition.

  The regular lighting gave way to deep red emergency lights. It was about to begin – he could feel it. They moved to the rear of the transport, where the ramp was located. In the cargo hold, more servants stood, watching the spectacle with anticipation.

  The vehicle’s magnetic feet docked with the floor. The gloomy fog of the wreck crept in. With stoic calm, the Custodes marched toward it. They put on their helmets to see more clearly. The reddish lenses lit up. Warnings and mission markers appeared inside. Marcelus ignored them.

  They moved cautiously through the hangar. Ahead of them, with bowed head, a priest of the Ordo Reliciam spread sacred incense and uttered prayers meant to shield them from the coming darkness. But that blessing was short-lived.

  As they entered the first corridor, a precise bullet cut through the air. The priest’s head exploded into tiny shreds before his lifeless body hit the ground. The dull clang of metal echoed like a tolling bell. Marcelus looked down, where fresh blood had stained the royal yellow of his armor. For that alone, he would personally rip off the head of every rebel. The Legion’s colors were sacred to the Custodes.

  Gripped by rage, Marcelus lunged forward. The welcoming hail of bullets didn’t faze him. Smaller projectiles bounced harmlessly off the ceramite plates – like raindrops. Close behind him moved Decimus, weapon at the ready. He fired a volley from his Phobos rifle – thick explosive rounds from the rotating drum magazine. The grenade-like munitions flew past Marcelus toward the end of the corridor. When they detonated, the sound of torn flesh echoed through the hallway – raw, wet, pitiful.

  The approaching scent of blood stirred Marcelus’ instincts even more. With a hiss, he drew Invictus – its blade surrounded by a blue energy field that hummed like a hungry beast.

  Emerging from the mist, his gaze met the wide, terrified eyes of the heretics. At that sight, they wanted nothing more than to save their own skins – but it was far too late. Flesh, metal – it made no difference. The Lord Commander’s sword slid through effortlessly. With a deep hum, the energy field unraveled matter at a molecular level. His victims didn’t even have time to scream before they were beheaded.