'Quick, strong and clever,' Thumiel remarked over the comm, obviously referring to the two who had banded together.

'Yes, they show signs of promise,' agreed Boreas, smil­ing inside his helmet. 'The other is brave, see how he continues to fight on, even though he has seen them beat everyone else.' He had seen enough, there was no point in allowing the bloodletting to continue. He raised his hand above his head, and after a moment, the fighting stopped.

'External address,' Boreas turned to Hebris. 'Bring those three to the testing chamber,' he said before turning away and walking back into the cave, followed by the other Space Marines.

He walked through the relic-strewn shrine to an open­ing at the back of the cave covered by a heavy curtain of woven leaves. Brushing aside the flimsy barrier, he stepped through the archway into the cavern beyond. It was a small chamber, dominated by a stone slab in the centre, waist high and stained with the reddish-brown of old blood. It reminded him of an interrogation cell back at the Tower of Angels.

It struck him as ironic that this place of recruitment - of hope for the future - should bear such a resemblance to a place dedicated to eradicating the shame of the past.

He was perturbed by the thought, and wondered why it was that he had been troubled so much lately by the memories of his first interrogation. For several weeks now during prayer and in quieter moments, his thoughts had strayed back to that encounter with Astelan. It had been nearly fifteen years ago, and he had performed two other interrogations since, but still that first battle of wills with one of the Fallen was etched into his mind.

He put it down to the isolation from his brethren. For several years he had been garrisoned here in the Piscina system with the others of his command, and in that time had not been in contact with any of his superiors or other members of the Inner Circle. The time preyed on his mind, and even his extended prayer sessions had done little to ease the doubts that had grown over recent months. Clenching his fists, Boreas exerted control over his wandering thoughts, bringing himself back to the matter in hand.

They waited for a few minutes until the curtain swayed and the three hopefuls entered, eyes wide with awe and fear. They saw the slab and stopped, darting nervous glances at the giant Space Marines who now surrounded them.

'Which of you shall be first?' asked Nestor, stepping towards the group.

They looked at each other and the eldest and tallest of them stepped forward. Boreas reckoned him to be little more than twelve or thirteen Terran years of age - perfect for the Dark Angels purposes. He was lean and wiry, with a thick shock of black hair that draped down over his deeply set eyes. He smiled wolfishly and took a pace towards the Apothecary.

'I am Varsin, I shall be the first,' the boy said proudly.

'Lie on the slab,' Nestor told him. The boy leapt onto the examining table and lay down, hands across his chest. Nestor loomed over him, a series of blades and needles extended from the narthecium built into his right forearm.

'Put your arms by your side, Varsin,' he said, placing a hand on the boy's forehead. The Apothecary's movements were deliberate and gentle, as fingers that could snap bones performed a cursory examination of the boy's body. 'This will cause you considerable pain,' he warned as he plunged the narthecium into the boys stomach.

Varsin's shrieks rebounded shrilly off the walls as blades incised their way through skin and muscle and tendrils forced their way into his innards through the wound. Nestor placed a hand on the boy's chest and held him down as he scrabbled and yelled, his limbs waving wildly with agony. Blood bubbled up from the gash, spilling over the slab and splashing across Nestor's white armour in ruddy droplets.

The other two youths gave horrified gasps and began to back towards the curtained doorway, but their route was blocked by Thumiel, who carefully laid a hand on each of their heads and stopped them.

'You have seen worse when the hunt has gone wrong,' he said, and they nodded dumbly in answer, still aghast at the bloody scene in front of them.

As Varsin writhed, Nestor stood there calmly while the narthecium took what it needed. Automatic probes scored samples from the boy's stomach lining, extracted blood, bile and other fluids, measured blood pressure and pulse rate, injected anti-toxicants and cauterised wounds. The glowing amber light on the back of the device turned red and Nestor withdrew his fist. With a quick movement, a web of needles extended and stitched the wound shut in a matter of seconds. Varsin lay there covered with sweat, tears running down his face, his chest heaving under Nestor's palm.

'Do not move for a moment, or your wounds may reopen,' Nestor cautioned the youth, raising his hand and stepping away. The boy glanced at the others that had taken part in the trial by combat, who stood trembling with hor­rified stares. His gaze then passed to Boreas and the Chaplain gave a reassuring nod to the youth. Nestor fiddled with the displays of the narthecium, making readings of the samples he had taken. It was several minutes before a signal chimed and he approached Boreas.

'What are your findings?' Boreas asked.

'Ninety-eight per cent tissue match for suitability,' the Apothecary told him, consulting the green display on his arm. 'No endemic illnesses or inherited disorders. Accept­able tolerance levels of toxic influences, average life signals and pain response. The boy is perfect, physically speaking.'

'Good,' Boreas said, looking at the shivering boy. 'Exter­nal address. Come here, Varsin.'

Varsin swung his legs off the slab and lowered himself to the floor. Clutching his stomach, he padded across the stone and stood in front of Boreas, looking up nervously.

'Tell me of yourself,' Boreas asked him.

'I am the fifth son of Hebris, the chieftain, who was the second son of Geblin who took the cloak of thorns from Darsko in challenge,' the boy replied, his chest puffing up. 'My father's older brother was chosen to be a warrior for the Star Emperor.'

'Then the blood of your family is strong, you come from good stock,' said Boreas. 'What can you do to prove your loyalty to the Emperor beyond the cloud?'

'I don't understand, lord,' Varsin admitted.

'Would you kill your father if I commanded it?' Boreas asked.

'Kill my father?' the boy replied hesitantly. 'I would if you commanded it, though it would sadden me.'

'And why would it sadden you?' Boreas said, leaning down to look Varsin in the eye. The boy's face was reflected in the red lenses of his helmet.

'I would be saddened that my father had dishonoured our people by offending the Emperor beyond the cloud and his star warriors,' the boy replied immediately. 'I can­not imagine any other reason why you should wish him dead. He has served his people well.'

'And are you, a mere boy, to be the judge of that?' asked Boreas, the skull of his helm staring at Varsin.

'No, lord, I would follow your command to slay him because you are a better judge than I,' Varsin said with a slight shake of his head.

'Good,' said Boreas, straightening up. 'Go outside and tell your father you shall be leaving with us tonight,'

'I am?' The boy's eyes shone with pride and a grin split his face. He took a few hurried steps towards the door and then stopped and doubled up in pain.

'I said rest those wounds!' Nestor barked.

'I am sorry, my lord,' Varsin said through a grimace, before walking more slowly through the curtain.

Boreas turned to the two remaining aspirants and ges­tured towards the slab. They exchanged worried glances and then one of them took a faltering step forward.

'I... I am...' the lad was visibly shaking, staring at the fresh blood on the examination table. 'No! I cant do it!'

He fell to his knees weeping and buried his face in his hands. Boreas walked over and crouched beside him, the servos in his armour whining loudly as he did so. The boy looked up at him, tears streaming down his face, and shook his head.

'I am sorry,' he wailed. 'I have dishonoured you, and shamed my family, but I cannot do it.'

'What is your name?' Boreas's metal-edged voice echoed harshly around the chamber.

'Sanis, my lord,' the boy replied.

'It takes a brave man to know his limits, Sanis,' Boreas said. 'But a Space Marine of the Emperor must have no limits. You understand this?'

'I do,' said Sanis.

'fThen follow me,' Boreas told the youth. He strode to the opposite side of the chamber and, delving his hand into well-concealed crack in the stone, activated a hidden switch. A section of the wall ground backwards out of sight, leaving a dark opening slightly taller than the Chaplain. Boreas motioned for Sanis to enter and the boy disappeared into the shadows, the Space Marine fol­lowing him. He urged the boy further forward a few steps and transmitted a coded signal over his suit's comm unit. A dull red light flickered into life overhead.

They were in a chamber that stretched off into the darkness. The floor was littered with old bones, knee-deep in places. Eyeless skulls glowed ruddily in the gloom, staring at the aspirant.

'If you return to your family having failed this test, it will bring them dishonour,' Boreas told the boy, and the youth nodded in agreement. 'They would lose all status, most likely they would starve to death within the turning of a season. You will be beaten, bullied, scorned by your people'

'It is true,' Sanis replied softly. 'I will take the test, I am sorry for being a coward.'

'It is too late to change your mind, you cannot refuse and then agree,' Boreas said. 'Your life, for what short time it will continue, will be full of misery and pain, and your return will doom your family. Though you have fallen at this hurdle, you were chosen to reach this far, and for that I give you credit and due honour. I will spare you and your family the wretchedness your refusal might incur.'

Boreas reached out and his gaundeted hand gripped the boy's neck. Even as the youth opened his mouth to speak, the Chaplain twisted his wrist, easily snapping Sanis's spine. Delicately, Boreas picked up the dead boy's limp form and carried him to the pile of bones and rev­erently laid him upon the top. He stepped back and bowed his head.

'May your soul be guarded from corruption and return again to serve the Emperor in a new life,' he intoned, kneeling and laying a hand upon the boy's chest. 'We will tell your people the truth - that you died during your trial and faced death bravely. They will be spared your shame.'

He turned on his heel and walked from the secret chamber, sending the signal to switch off the light as he did so. Stepping outside, he pressed the hidden switch again and the door ground back into place leaving no sign of the join.

The Interrogator-Chaplain turned to the last remaining youth and pointed at the slab. The aspirant had seen nothing that had happened in the other chamber, and his eyes showed more confidence than before.

'Do you submit yourself to the judgment of the Dark Angels?' he asked. The boy smiled and nodded.

Varsin gazed with wonder out of the armoured window of the Thunderhawk at the looming shape of the Dark Angels' starship hanging in orbit over Piscina V. Sharp-prowed and sleek, dominated by its massive engines, the Blade of Caliban looked like a space-borne predator. It was not so far from the truth; one of the fastest ships in the sector, the rapid strike vessel was built for extended patrols across dozens of explored and uncharted star sys­tems, to respond with speed to any situation, and yet carried enough firepower to destroy anything of similar size.

Though considered small for a warp-capable vessel, it was nearly half a kilometre in length and could in theory carry half a company of Space Marines, although its pri­mary function was to act as the Chapter's eyes and ears, the duty of transportation and war falling to the larger strike cruisers and immense battle barges.

Fully a third of the starship's length was taken up by its powerful plasma engines and the reactors to drive them, almost the entirety of the rest of the structure was pin-pricked with gun emplacements, scanning areas and launch bays. At the fore, the heavily armoured prow was pierced by the dark holes of its torpedo tubes. As they neared, the stars seemed to shimmer and there was a brief scattering of blue and purple light as they passed through the ship's void shields.

The other aspirant, Beyus, was strapped into one of the gunship's seats, heavily sedated. As he had been taken up into orbit above Piscina V, the shock had proven too much for him and he had begun sobbing and wailing, tearing at his eyes in disbelief.

It was not unusual for an aspirant from a feral world to suffer such catastrophic culture shock and Nestor had quietened him with a narcolepsia. If the boy did not recover his senses soon, he would be useless as a recruit and the techpriests would take him, scrub his mind of the traumas and turn him into a servitor so that he might still be of service to the Chapter.

The Thunderhawk passed into the shadow of the ship and powered its way to the landing bay. As darkness fell outside, Varsin turned away, eyes wide with excitement. The interior of the Thunderhawk was a mix of chapel and control deck, its arched alcoves filled with flickering screens and digital runepads, while an ornately embroi­dered banner covered the ceiling.

The Space Marines had discarded their helmets, and their backpacks were locked into stowage positions to recharge from the gunship's engines while their armour functioned on its own internal power source. Except for Hephaestus, who was in the cockpit piloting, they were all sitting with their heads bowed in prayer, each silently mouthing their own chosen catechisms to the Emperor and their primarch, Lion El'Jonson. Aware of the sub­dued mood, the boy quelled his excitement and seated himself at the rear end of the gunship, away from the intimidating presence of the Space Marines.

Soon light glared through the ports as the Thunder­hawk docked, accompanied by the clang of clamps sealing to the hull and bringing the craft safely inside the Blade of Caliban. Roused from their reverie, the Space Marines stood, and each backed onto his armour's power pack. With a hiss of hydraulics and the clank of locking mechanisms, automatic arms implanted the backpacks into their armour once more. They reached beneath the bench and picked up their helmets, uniformly carrying them under their left arm. As the assault ramp crashed down onto the decking, they filed out slowly into the docking bay. Techpriests and half-machine servitors moved to and fro, checking the Thunderhawk, giving praise to the Machine-God for its safe return and sprin­kling it with holy oils from heavy censers.

The Space Marines strode through the gathering crowd, Nestor carrying Beyus under his free arm, Varsin hurrying to keep up with his giant escort.

'Are not all of the star warriors like yourselves?' he asked. The boy's gaze was moving constantly, taking in every detail of the strange environment, alternating between surprise and dread. He pointed at the Chapter serfs who busied themselves around the flight bay - nor­mal humans who performed the hundreds of day-to-day functions of the Chapter on behalf of their Space Marine masters.

'There are very few of us,' Nestor replied as a group of robed functionaries scurried towards him. He passed the comatose Beyus to them and they carried him away. 'It is said that the Imperium of the Emperor holds more worlds than it does Space Marines. You have passed only the first tests, there are many more to come. Some do not survive, but those who fail and live to tell of it will serve the Chapter in other ways, as do these serfs.'

'More tests?' asked Varsin. 'When do they take place? How long before I can fight for the Emperor as a Space Marine?'

'Such impatience!' laughed Zaul. 'If, and it is only if, you become a Space Marine it takes years of training and surgery. I myself was twelve summers old when I was chosen, but I was eighteen before I received my black carapace.'

'What is that? Your armour?' asked Varsin.

'Yes and no,' said Nestor. 'Much of the years to come will be spent teaching you of the stars and worlds beyond the cloud, so that you might understand truly what is to become of you. My brethren in the apothecarion will change your body, making it grow strong like ours. You will be given new lungs to breathe poison, and a second heart so that your blood might continue to flow in the heat of battle despite grievous wounds. We will give you the precious gene-seed of the Lion, and his greatness will flow through your veins and be bound into your bones. You will feel no pain, you shall have the strength of ten men, you will see in the dark as clearly as day and you will hear an assassin's breath over the thunder of a storm. Lastly, you shall have the black carapace that melds your body to your armour so that you can wear it as you might a second skin.'

The boy was dumbstruck, incapable of even conceiving of the advanced gene-therapy and implantation process he would undergo. For him, such things were magical, the powers of the Emperor beyond the cloud, not for him to judge or understand.

'Not only shall your body be crafted into a living weapon of the Emperor's will,' added Boreas. 'Your mind must be trained also. You shall learn the Cate­chisms of Hate, the battle-prayers of the Chapter, the hymnals to the Lion. You must learn how to use the new organs that will grow inside your body, and con­trol the rage you must feel when confronted with the alien, the traitor and the heretic. As your muscles grow, so shall your mental fortitude, so that like us you shall never know fear again, nor doubt nor compassion and mercy, for they are weaknesses a vile enemy will exploit.'

As he spoke the words, Boreas felt them ring hollow in his own heart. The legacy of Astelan's words still gnawed at him even now. Boreas knew himself guilty of all those things which he trained others to suppress - fear of him­self and his own power, doubts of his own loyalty and motives, compassion and mercy for those his Chapter had sworn to destroy for ten thousand years. Like an open wound, his traitorous thoughts festered in his mind.

'Truly you are great. How blessed are we to have such lords!' gasped Varsin.

The Space Marines exchanged silent looks, for each knew of the pain and mental torture they had endured to become such superhumans. None of them could truly remember where they came from, or their family and friends. They were Space Marines of the Dark Angels Chapter; nothing less, nothing more. They lived only to serve the Emperor, honour their battle-brothers and pro­tect mankind. Though they were the ultimate defenders of humanity, they themselves would never know true humanity again.

'Enough questions,' barked Boreas, annoyed at his own harmful introspection, causing Varsin to flinch and almost stumble. He glanced at the others but their faces betrayed no evidence that they sensed something was amiss. 'There will be questions enough when the Tower of Angels arrives in Piscina.'

It took several days for the Blade of Caliban to return to Piscina IV. Unlike the feral fifth world, Piscina IV had maintained a veneer of civilisation through the Age of Strife, and when the Dark Angels had reclaimed the world during the Great Crusade, they had been welcomed with open arms by the humans living there. In many ways, Piscina was perfect for the Dark Angels' purposes. The barbaric warriors of the fifth planet provided excellent recruits - natural and hardy warriors that could only be found on such deathworlds, or in the savage depths of a hive-world. But the semi-cultured fourth world gave them a place for their outpost, a haven they could dwell in without interfering with the development of the tribesmen of Piscina V.