Clydeus peered down the corridor. It ran for half a mile at least, the spots of illumination cast by isolated lumens fading eventually into darkness. He imagined tall, inhuman shapes lumbering down it, and him with nowhere to go, because the corridor was equally featureless and equally long in the other direction. He wished more than anything that Mathieu would command them to move on. He wanted the day to be over, so they could get to whatever hiding place they were due to sleep in that night.
But their duties were not done. The most perilous part still awaited.
He almost gasped with relief when Mathieu said it was time to go. Mathieu put the plate back in place over the priest hole himself, turning the screws at the corners with a piece of sharpened metal that dangled from a cord at his belt.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘The Emperor awaits us.’
He strode ahead, fearless. The Emperor granted Mathieu great energy. Clydeus prayed daily he’d get a share too. As it was, the relic box felt awfully heavy as he reattached the strap’s hooks to the brass handles, slung the pad around his forehead, and trudged after the priest and the guide.
The storeroom Hiven had chosen for the service was tucked well out of the way behind one of the refectories. Its supplies had been dispersed to the others around the kitchens. There was so little food left on board that it could have been gathered together, and most of the rooms left empty, but the local quartermaster kept a well-ordered system, arranging material by type. It was harder to guard, he said, but easier to account for, and the trust he gave his comrades as they watched it kept up their morale. They didn’t do it like that everywhere, but it worked for them. A side benefit was that they could quickly free up space for the church when the priests came to the sector.
Everything had been moved out, shelves, supplies and all. A simple, folding table had been set up as an altar at one end, and covered over with a plain but clean cloth. On top of it stood a statue of the Emperor. It was a little battered, made of cast resin. Nothing fancy, nothing valuable, but to this particular congregation it was a source of great comfort. It would have meant a painful death to whoever was caught with it. The dangers attached to the effigy only increased the people’s reverence, and the quartermaster showed it to Mathieu and Clydeus as proudly as if he had never shown them before.
Clydeus liked him. He was a kind man. He could have abused his position, being one of the last remaining officers, and one with control over the food at that, but he had instead risen to the occasion, making sure everyone was fed, enabling the services, and keeping people safe as they laboured for their new masters.
Mathieu opened the relic box to get out the candles and went to set them up. They carried their own; they were rare things now. There were a few prayer books in there besides the candles, a couple of holy symbols and Mathieu’s inactive servo-skull. If the box had ever held a relic, it was long before Clydeus’ time. He’d tried suggesting they ditch the box and the skull. To Clydeus’ mind, it would have been much easier to carry their appurtenances of worship in a bag. He’d suggested it once.
It was the only time he had seen Mathieu angry.
It was the skull, Clydeus was sure, not the box. He took out the prayer books and it was revealed. Mathieu had fitted the box with padding to fit the skull as best he could, so it stared up out of the bottom with its hollow, horrible eyes, its few augmetics carefully curled about it. A large ‘HV’ was carved into the bone of the forehead. Clydeus set the books down and let his fingers trace the letters.
Not for the first time, he wondered who the skull had belonged to. Its powercell had given out a while ago and would not recharge. It needed proper maintenance. Whoever the skull had been must have been holy indeed for Mathieu to treat it so. He could have discarded it. He probably should have. At the very least, he could have hidden it somewhere. Emperor knew there were a billion potential places. But the frater insisted on carrying it.
He insists that I carry it, Clydeus corrected himself.
‘Clydeus,’ Mathieu said softly. He extinguished his taper and nodded to the doorway. ‘They are here. Be alert.’
Through the door the first of the congregation came, the shuffling masses of the lower ordnance deck reload gangs. They kept filing in, cramming themselves in so tightly they jolted against the altar. They consumed so much of the oxygen, Clydeus became dizzy. The smell coming off them was powerful, the scent of machine oils, burnt fyceline, brass, the sharp tang of the void even, all laid on the barnyard aroma of people doing their best to keep clean without adequate water.
Mathieu watched them with a father’s indulgence, until the room was completely full. More were in the corridor outside. A hush fell on them, so intense it was as if they were willing their hearts to beat more quietly, so they would not miss a single word. Clydeus glanced at the pathetic collection of prayer books he’d unpacked from the box. There was enough for maybe one in twenty people, and no way of passing them out into the crush.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ said Mathieu. He smiled warmly. To many priests, the words were homilies of no real meaning. To him, they were a literal truth; he saw them all as his family. ‘I come to you with words of comfort, on this, the four hundred and seventy-fifth day of the capture of the Macragge’s Honour, flagship of the returned primarch, Roboute Guilliman. May the Emperor watch over His son.’
‘May the Emperor watch over His son,’ the congregation replied.
And so the service started. They all began that way.
Mathieu and Clydeus’ duties ended with the Indulgence of the Innocent, where the sick and frightened asked the priests for their personal intervention with the Emperor. This lasted a long time, as many of the crew wished to speak. Hiven grew more nervous the longer it went, and by the time it was over he was evidently worried. His broken foot rasped over the deck plates as they made their way out of Gunnery Section Seven into Gunnery Section Six. Although he was of little use in the heavy work of the magazine since his accident, he was fast despite his crutch, using it to swing himself forward at a surprising pace, and Clydeus panted trying to keep up with him.
The patrols were more prevalent during the late watches. Although the battleship was in the hands of the Red Corsairs, for the human crew, the routines of their duty had changed little. Their new masters were crueller, the conditions were worse, and so their suffering was greater, but the shipboard rhythms of work, sleep and sustenance ran on as regularly as they ever did. It was not so long ago that the Red Corsairs had been servants of the Emperor themselves, and they had not yet plunged into the erratic habits of some other Heretic Astartes.
The only element of life that had changed was worship. Where it was permitted at all, the crew were herded into grim fanes to give praise to the Dark Gods, but most of the fallen Space Marines seemed to disdain religion of all kinds, and so long as the crew did not openly praise the Emperor they were left alone, and the time meant for devotion was empty.
That was where Clydeus and Mathieu came in. If they were discovered, they would suffer the most terrible of fates. Mathieu spoke of their probable martyrdom as if he were resigned to it, desiring only to do as much good as he could before the end came. Clydeus swung from utter terror to elation at the thought, and secretly clung to the dream that he would be made a saint.
They were on the move constantly. The nooks and crannies they were forced to inhabit as they brought the Emperor’s Word were terrible places, but some were worse than others.
It was too late to make their next contact, so they spent the dark watches in a gap at the centre of a run of pipes. The space was narrow, and the three of them had to sleep in a row, with Clydeus in the middle. His head was by Hiven’s feet, the relic box was heavy on his stomach, and the pipes were not only uncomfortable, but also knocked and gurgled. He spent the night praying.