Pre-Battle Preparations (IV)

Was this some kind of cruel joke?

Cato Sicarius wanted an answer, but Belisarius Cawl had no time for him at all.

The Fabricator-General was hunched over his workbench, busy as a possessed monster. One glance was enough to tell that his attention had sunk entirely into his work—or, in terms more fitting to the priests' logic, he had no spare processing power left.

So Sicarius had no choice but to walk aside and stand straight at the end of the workbench, temporarily taking up the role of a sentry.

Of course, he knew that a Fabricator-General like Belisarius Cawl had no need for anyone to fill such a post, but he had to do something. Otherwise, what was the difference between standing there empty-handed and ignored, and being an idiot?

No, there was a difference. The young Ultramarine thought bitterly. At least an idiot could do whatever he wanted, instead of following someone's orders and pacing back and forth along the same path.

He suppressed the urge to sigh and instead reminded himself: Courage and Honour. This brief maxim had originated with Roboute Guilliman. He had been the first to propose it, the first to put it into practice, and then he had carried it into the blood of the Ultramarines.

For ten thousand years, they had acted in strict accordance with its demands.

At first, it was difficult, because the responsibility that came with becoming an Astartes was far greater than the power it granted. Yet recruits always saw the power and status first, only later realizing why they had transformed from mortals into sons of a primarch.

Some accepted it quickly. Some accepted it reluctantly. And then there were others, whose names were erased, who would never become Ultramarines.

Not everyone understands honour, Sicarius thought.

He had