A Catechism of Hate [40k]

[Feil]

Tried writing this a few weeks ago without success. Gave another shot last weekend and came up with this self-contained ~2200w short story, which I think is pretty decent. Criticism is appreciated.


A Catechism of Hate
Feil


Hate. The Emperor's greatest gift to mankind. This is the source of wrath and the steel behind our will. Amen.

Treason. The Unpardonable Sin. This is what we hate, above all else. Amen.

The Scout Marine's palm smashed up into the doorman's nose, slaying him instantly. He strode through the doorway over the old man's twitching corpse, shrugging off his scholarly robe. It settled shroudlike over the body.

All sins but Treason may be forgiven, though they exact a harsh toll. What is the toll? The toll is death. Amen.

Malus and Veronickol crashed in from above, falling in showers of splintered skylight. They shed their robes as they fell, and rolled hard when they hit the floor. There was no need for disguise any more. Their cover was broken. Now was the time for force.

The owners of this manor had eschewed interior defenses in the public regions. With young children running about a house, such things would surely bring grief upon the house. Now the children were children no more, of course. And grief had come. Grief had come in force.

Who shall deliver the price? Who indeed but we, Chosen of Terra? We bring death. Amen.

Autoguns were drawn, now. The compact weapons lacked the brutal glory of bolt weapons, but for a mission like this, they were ideal. Angelus glimpsed movement at the top of a stairwell and fired thrice: Thwok! Thwok! Thwok! The maid spasmed as she died, then rolled down the stairs. An alarm began to ring. Soon, guards would respond, and the awe-inspiring entry hall would become a killing field devoid of cover.

Malus' and Veronickol's weapons spattered out of Angelus' field of vision, but he ignored them. Each would cover his own kill sector.

We are Marines Malevolent. We live to kill. We kill for Terra. Amen.

“Advance. Second Sector lies ahead.”

Each to his own sector. Each up a set of stairs. There were three. Angelus had known there would be three. He knew this house well. He knew how to cut to its heart.

They mounted the stairs at a dead sprint, ignoring the rattle of gunfire already beginning to crisscross the room. Malus ducked into cover that Angelus had told him would be there. Veronickol turned his aim to the guards beginning to enter, suppressing them with well-placed bursts. Angelus glimpsed Malus drawing the sign of the aquila over his underbarrel grenade launcher as he rolled into the cover afforded by the heavy wooden overhang of the door to Second Sector.

It is better that a thousand innocent die than a single guilty man draw breath. This is the power of hate. This is how we kill. This is how we hate. Amen.

Hate the Xeno. The Xeno is wretched. The Xeno longs to debase mankind. Better a thousand innocent die than the seed of alien-worship corrupt a million. Thus we kill for Terra.

The door to Second Sector was merely an inch of sturdy wood, openable by handprint, but it was backed by a sturdy lattice of adamantine rods. Those, however, could be unlocked with a key. Angelus had a key. It was a yellow key, made of painted brass. It had the shape of a train, for it was a child's key.

The train goes in the tunnel. Angelus' fingers moved with surety and elegance. Not a motion was wasted. No child's fingers were these.

The train goes left. One pin clicked.

The train goes right. Another pin. It goes up a hill, then right again. Then left, so it is straight again. Then down the hill, all the way down the hill to the end of the tunnel.

The latch clacked, and there was a clang of metal on metal as the lattice slid away. Angelus thought to leave the key in the lock—but a firm voice from his distant memory commanded him never to leave it where another might find it. It was not until much later that he realized whose voice it was. He pocketed the key and nodded to Malus.

Together they rotated, kicked the door from its hinges, and brought their weapons to bear on the hallway's occupants. They opened fire before the door hit the ground: Angelus with a stacatto of automatic fire, Malus with a whump of compressed gas as the launcher discharged.

Hate the Mutant. The Mutant is the offspring of Man, but he is a beast. The Mutant's desires may be pure, but his body can never be pure. Mankind will not be clean until the last is dead. Better the mother of a mutant-to-be die than that the twisted fruit of her womb offend the sacred thing that is Man. Thus we hate for Terra.

There was honor here, and bravery amongst the foe. The rebels stood their ground, even when the grenade burst amongst them before they could fire, cutting muscle and breaking bone. A pistol shot tore through a joint in Angelus' carapace armor, tearing flesh. Malus went down hard as a heavy shotgun discharged against his breastplate, and for a moment Angelus thought their advance would end here, trapped like beasts between two parties of hunters. Then Veronickol shouted, “Ad majorem Imperator-dei gloriam!” and threw.

Malus and Angelus were moving before the second word, and when the yellow-painted orb detonated, filling the hall with shrapnel, both were out of its area of effect. They re-entered the curving hall, released the catch to drop the lattice back in place, then moved quickly through the bodies of the dead. Sector terminus was near.

Hate the Heretic. The Heretic is more vile than either Mutant or Xeno, for he had a choice. He had a choice, and he chose the way of damnation. Even the suspicion of heresy is cause enough to kill. A martyr's death brings glory to Terra. A heretic's death brings glory to Terra. Thus we hate. Thus we kill.

Angelus had seen this part of the house only three times before. Once had been a false alarm. Two times had been attempts at assassination. This was the most dangerous place in the house. In truth, the only really dangerous one. The guards at the door were nothing to the weapons and traps that guarded the inner house, where his parents worked in safe seclusion. It was here they had hidden, when, on two occasions in ten years, political rivals had sought to defeat them by violence. It was here they had waited in anxious silence when the Marines Malevolent had spearheaded an assault on the district where their son went to school. It was here they had clung to one another, weeping, when the report came in: a flawless victory for the Imperium. No survivors from the tainted neighborhood. No-one had escaped.

Here was a section of the floor decorated with pastoral images. Angelus waved his brethren behind him, stepping carefully along the pattern his mother had taught him long ago. A misstep would mean death, she had said. He could not help but hear her rhyme in his head as he tiptoed forward, feeling large and clumsy in his armored boots:

Dog and cat and mouse and frog;
Hare and mare and pear and log;
Then anything except the cog.

Angelus suppressed a shiver as he stepped over the glowering symbol of the Mechanicus. He had not thought of his mother except by her formal title or as “target beta” for many years. His pause was noticed by Malus, who turned him to look into his face. He shook his head. Malus nodded, and gave his armored shoulder a gentle push forward. “I know what ails thee, brother-to-be,” the look said. “I know it, but I trust thee. Now lead.”

In much the same manner they proceeded: Angelus always first, the others always careful to tread only where he stepped, move only as he moved. They penetrated deeper and deeper into the labrynth, bypassing gun-servitors and explosives and laser beams. At last, Angelus motioned them to stop.

“Angelus,” said Veronickol.

“Angelus,” said Malus.

“Beloved,” said Angelus, “Guard me now.”

“We shall avenge thee if thou dost fall in thy test,” said Veronickol, not yet turning away.

Angelus hesitated a moment. He stepped towards the door, then glanced over his shoulder. There was a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision, and he reacted – but Veronickol, whose sector it was, was faster. The flying servo-skull had time enough to snap off one inaccurate shot from the lasgun built into its lower jaw before a bullet killed it, smashing the cogitator that had replaced the original owner's brain.

More, learning from the deaths of the first, darted towards them. Bright tracers of laser fire spattered the walls. Malus and Veronickol returned fire, their precision and armor matched by the enemy's agility and number. Malus winged one, and finished it off with a brace of shots. “Go in wrath,” he hissed.

Behind them, there was the sound of a door hissing open as it recognized a retinal scan, even after so many years. Then there was the sound of heavy gunfire. Then the door hissed closed again, and there was only the battle at hand.

---

Hate the traitor.

The autogun bucked in Angelus' hand, shredding the first guard before he could fire. The other fired. Long years of training had taught him to aim high, ignoring the well-armored center of mass. A bullet struck Angelus' helmet, deforming it badly and fracturing his skull. Another sliced over the bridge of his nose, snapping the bone and robbing him of vision for a moment. Angelus returned fire wildly, blind with his own blood and tears. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain, and followed the sound with a killing burst.

As he blinked his vision clear at last, there was an unmistakable roar and a sudden explosion of pain in his left arm. He was lifted into the air, spun around, slammed into the far wall. The helmet came off and skittered away. Blackness encroached upon his vision.

The Traitor is damned, for he has betrayed his humanity.

He drove the darkness away with a snarl. He felt pain in his shoulder, but nothing in his left arm. It dangled by a shred of flesh and armor. Weakness surged against his resolve, and he drove it back with hate.

The Traitor is reviled, for he has turned against his god.

He dragged his gaze up and centered it on the muscular man with the smoking bolt pistol in his hands. The inspirer-to-treason. The archtraitor of this world, who had led them in rebellion against Holy Terra. There was a woman behind the man, but she stayed silent while he spoke.

“Do you know why, Marine?”

The cause of treason is irrelevant. The means of treason are irrelevant.

“Do you know why I hate you?”

The Traitor is pursued, for his very existence is anathema. No matter who, no matter where, we burn them down.

“It's not the tithes, nor the tyrants. It's the bloody massacres. You kill our people so readily, like we're nothing. You're so fucking important, with your fancy armor and your big ships, and—” he gestured with the pistol “—and your god guns. Why don't let's see you kill your fathers and mothers, eh, you fucking bastard? You fucking bastard, you killed my son. You killed my son!”

He fired again. His hands were shaking and his aim was off. The shot exploded next to Angelus' head, disintegrating his ear and shredding his face. The point of his cheek bone – his father's sharp cheek bones, they were – saved his eye. Angelus worked his right hand slowly towards his belt. There was a toggle there that would release an overdose of battle stims.

“No,” he said, slurring through a lacerated mouth. Had to make time. Had to keep him talking. “No, and yes.”

“Maybe not you, but you – you, they killed my—”

“His voice,” gasped the woman. “His face!”

In the sudden silence, the gunfight outside was audible.

The man's eyes grew wide. The barrel of the boltgun faltered. “My son. Oh, Emperor, my son.”

“No, father,” Angelus said, stabbing his fingers down on the stud – it was a human molar, recessed into the armor – and twisting hard to activate it. The drug hit him like a locomotive, roaring through his veins and slamming his heart into action. The stump of his arm spurted once with blood. “No. And yes.”

Stim blew the darkness from his mind and vision. Stim restored, for a moment, the strength of his limbs. He darted for the autogun he had dropped. His father hesitated. Angelus found the gun, hefted it one-handed, and fired. The bullet tore through his father's chest. The bolt pistol roared as it fell from his hand. Angelus fired again, and again. Bright bursts of scarlet rose over his father's suit. He coughed twice, and died.

Thus we kill for Terra.

Thus we kill, and ever shall kill. For to kill is our law. To hate is our creed. While the enemies of Terra yet draw breath...

“We do what we must,” gasped Angelus. There was more than mere pain in his voice. He leveled the weapon at his mother.

Her mouth formed words, though she spoke not. They were: “My son. My son. My son. My son.”

There can be no forgiveness.

Amen.

[The Grim Squeaker]

Fantastic . Absolutely fantastic, why is it that you didn't win the "Planet destruction" BL contest? I blame bribery

[Sidewinder]

A good story-- it suits the world of 'Warhammer 40,000' very well.

[Hawkwings]

Oh, the Marines Malevolent. The *real* psychopaths of the Imperium!

Excellent writing! BTW, where is this planet destruction story?

[Feil]

Thank you.

Oh, the Marines Malevolent. The *real* psychopaths of the Imperium!

Excellent writing! BTW, where is this planet destruction story?

Sitting half-written on my flash drive, where it's been since I sent it in to the contest months ago.

I've liked the Marines Malevolent for some time. Putting the 'death' back in Angel of Death since M32!