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There was a certain irony, he thought, that it was when his death was certain that he would actually give some thought to the battle cry he’d shouted all his life. Alone in Kalkys, fending off a horde of greenskins. Slugs from shoota boyz hissed around him, unlucky shots chipping away at his armor. Axe-swinging orks charged in, shouting their wretched xenos warcry.
He no longer had the breath to spare to respond properly.
And the miserable gretchen, armed with knives, nipped away at his heels. The satisfaction wrought from shattering them with the shockwave from a powered foot stomp was short lived.
There were so many of them.
His bolter was empty. His melta short on charges. Every bolt in his pistol had to count. And here he was, contemplating the meaning of “Courage and honor”.
But did he really know what it meant?
Astartes knew no fear. They do not cower from danger, as he’d seen ordinary humans do. They do not break and rout as he’d seen Guardsmen and PDF troopers do. Whatever instinct those ordinary men and women had that made them flee, he lacked.
It was a good thing. Astartes could not operate as they do if they were restricted by such base instincts. They were the Emperor’s Angels of Death, His Wrathful Hand reaching forth across the galaxy to smite His foes. Not a moment’s hesitation could be spared. At risk of death and damnation, they were to go forth and fight. Into the jaws of death. Into the Mouth of Hell. With no hesitation. No second thoughts. It made them effective. It made them efficient.
It made them Astartes.
But did it make them courageous?
He had seen Guardsmen holding the line, knowing their lives were forfeit, to buy but a single moment more for their comrades. He’d seen menials shield each other with no thought for their own safety, if it meant saving the lives of their fellows. He’d seen medics cross active firefights to treat wounded troopers and drag them back to cover.
He himself was alive because a lone guardsman had spotted a gretchen with a detpack, and wrestled it away before it could latch the charge onto his armor and detonate it.
That fallen trooper was one nameless human, in an endless sea of humans across the galaxy. All possessing that base instinct to cower away and preserve themselves. That trooper had overcome that instinct and saved him.
The guardsman felt fear, and overcame. Did that mean the guardsman had more courage than he?
It unsettled him to think so.
The warning chime in his helmet was joined by the sudden wracking jolt as his armor’s shields were overwhelmed. The shoota boyz had formed a firing line… well, more an impromptu shooting gallery. But they were all gathered together and firing slugs in his general direction.
He grit his teeth as he wrenched an ork’s axe arm out of its socket, all while slugs slammed into his armor. Gretchen were still chipping away at his ankles and feet with their primitive choppers. And those shootas were gathered up fairly tightly as they pushed each other for a better angle…
He swapped to his melta, the flash of heat clearing away the crowd of orks in front of him for a few precious moments. He pulled his last grenade and calculated the distance. The toss was perfect, landing right in the crowd.
The explosion put a sudden cease to the relentless hail of lead that had been pounding him. If he survived this, the chapter’s techmarines would not be pleased with repairing the damage.
Another slam of his foot cleared the gretchen around him, and he grimaced at the sight of the scratches and gouges they were managing. No, the techmarines would not be pleased at all.
His eyes narrowed as he saw a handful of the shootas starting to stand. His bolt pistol came up, loud retorts announcing the expenditure of his dwindling supply of bolts. The satisfaction of each headshot did little to alleviate the discomfort brought by the indicator counting down to his last two bolts.
Not that his melta’s sole charge was any better.
But as the orks came in, axes swinging, at least he no longer had to worry about the damned slugs.
His knife carved through greenskin flesh, his own body a constant blur of blocking, dodging, and striking. His armor gave a happier chime, his personal protective field recharging from the lack of incoming damage. The rhythm of the melee was soothing without the slamming of the slugs. And he could finally hear himself think.
If he had not true courage, honor he had.
Didn’t he?
He was a proud member of the Second Company. A tactical marine, veteran of a hundred wars on a hundred worlds. Master of scouting, assault and devastation. Beneath his helmet, a gleaming service stud marked his century of service. His armor and bolter were adorned with purity seals, cast in electrum for the blessings that had survived his battles. His bolter itself was an honor, for it was a master-crafted relic of the chapter. The mere act of carrying the pride of the armory into battle was a testament to the trust and honor the Chapter had in his abilities.
Its loss will be a stain on his legacy, when he falls.
The accolades he had were hard earned by his own merits and achievements. Bold performance in battles against the foes of Mankind rewarded and recognized.
The crowd of orks had swollen, and he could no longer adequately maneuver on the catwalk. Axes were breaking past his guard, battering away at his shield. The helmet chimed again, and was joined by the sound of base metal slamming into ceramite.
He rolled back, his backpack slamming against the facility’s metal wall, as he pulled out his melta. He let the orks close, before he squeezed the trigger. A flash of heat, and the orks were gone. And quickly replaced by the comrades that had been behind them.
No matter.
He had room to maneuver once again. As his protective field recharged once more, his knife was buried in an ork skull, and slashing through another’s throat, slicing off an arm, buried in a heart-
He struck, and struck, and struck. A faster rhythm, a faster dance, more xenos slaughtered in the Emperor’s name.
The mountain of dead orks would be the last honor he gained in this life. May it overwhelm the shame of losing a relic.
If he was lucky, the bolter would be found at his side. Unlikely, given the greenskins’ proclivity of looting anything even remotely shiny.
And the relic was nothing if not shiny.
Such a public reward in the eyes of the Chapter. Was that all there was to honor? Great deeds accomplished and rewarded? If so, then honor he had aplenty.
And yet, that was not the only honor spoken of by the Chaplains.
The Chaplains spoke of two kinds of honor: external and internal. Accolades and character.
The true worth of a Space Marine came from his internal honor. How well he upholds the values of the Chapter. How he holds to the virtues of the Imperium. Even his understanding of the Codex Astartes.
It was not something that the Chapter could bestow. Even the Archtraitor himself was honored greatly and personally by the Emperor, yet the faults of his character tore the Imperium asunder. It was something the Chaplains kept an eye on, yet even they could not know every ounce of his heart.
He thought he held true to the values inherent to humanity. He held hatred in his heart for the xenos, the alien filth that polluted humanity’s galaxy. He detested the mutant, the vile proof of weakness in the face of corruption. He despised the heretic, the traitors who dared turn their backs on the light of Mankind.
And he hated the Ruinous Powers and their followers.
If he was certain of nothing else, he knew he hated Chaos.
The Armor of Contempt shielded his soul. Nothing the Ruinous Powers held appealed to him. Not the base pleasures of Slaanesh, nor the familial decay of Nurgle. Not the twisted logic on Tzeentch, nor the bloody wars of Khorne.
In the deepest recesses of his soul, he wondered if the battles he fought, the blood he spilled, fed the power of the Blood God.
He crushed a gretchen under his boot, punched the jaw of one greenskin while gutting another. These foul xenos he slew for Humanity and its immortal Emperor.
Could it be that this righteous act for the sake of Mankind also fed one of the Powers that sought its demise?
His skull rang from the impact of an ork’s axe. He blinked at the sudden change in the lighting as he punched the offender. His HUD had vanished. There was no longer a chime in his ear.
Rolling back out of reach, he realized what had happened as his eyes caught a glimpse of his helmet on the floor, the crown still bearing the axe that had wrenched it off his head.
No matter.
Courage, he knew not of he had truly. Honor… He had external honor in spades. Internal honor… He would leave that to the Emperor to know.
Did it mean anything? Was there a point to the wondering?
His faith was pure and unyielding. He delivered death to the enemies of Man. Did it matter if he had true courage and true honor? Did it make him less of an Astartes if he didn’t?
Would it make him less of an Ultramarine?
He swung his knife and found nothing. He blinked. There were no orks standing before him. The chittering gretchen slamming its oversized cleaver was crushed.
Was it over?
The echoing “Waaaagh!” that reverberated through the metal halls answered that question.
No melta charge. No grenades. No bolter bolts. Two bolt pistol bolts. One tactical knife.
It would have to be enough.
The questions he had, he would ask the Company Chaplain, or the Emperor. Whichever he saw first.
If he died, he mused, there were worse ways to go than slaughtering the enemies of Man while contemplating ‘Courage and Honor’.