Buried. That's how they say original Terrans dealt with their dead, ages upon ages ago when the species was first learning to cultivate the first world, before incinerators, recyclers, and anything like space travel. The same was practiced on Colchis, long before the arrival of Aureli... Brenard stopped himself from thinking any further. Dead. Yes, that is what he should be right now. Lying a foot or so under dirt and mulch was not even a close approximation, but perhaps it was symbolic, ritualistic... Oh, he shouldn't think anything of rituals. Never again. Brenard closed his eyes and exhaled a breath, dispelling the images of the past. He had to stop his thoughts quite frequently or his emotions would shake his already unsteady reasoning. Thought-stopping was the only way he could deal with the truth. The truth, that the blood of a traitor ran in his veins, that none of his damned legion could ever be trusted again, not with their now-known flawed geneseed. Why had he survived, he wondered. Why had he hung on for days, months, hours, moments, crawled out of the earth he had been buried under back on Istva... Stopped again. A moment of silence followed as Brenard cleared his mind once more. Hope. Yes, hope is what got him back to Terra after that. It was a false hope, that everything might turn out better somehow, but now he had to deal with the continued existence that the false hope had afforded him. So here he was, in the dirt, worthless, never again to be exalted or even acknowledged by the Imperium that had produced him, nor by the one known as the Emperor. His entire legion was nothing more than a failed experiment. 

Now they were here on a world... yes, there were others like Brenard. ...here to fight the enemy, traitors, like their prideful primarchs. As if anything they could do could ever have a chance at redeeming them for what they were. No, blood was too thick. Geneseed was something that could not be washed away. No matter how loyal they may be as individuals, they were all as good as damned. From now on, this would be a story about living a damned life. 

Slaughtering the denizens of the poorly defended port was quick and efficient, like it would have been on any human planet that refused Imperial compliance. The rulers would be purged and the population spared, for the most part, if possible, and then the populace would be reeducated. Brenard felt no regret about taking the port. He would kill, he would do anything, not for any hopes of redeeming himself, for that was impossible, but simply to obey as he was supposed to. 

It was time to get up. A Blackshield rose from the black earth under the black night. Kurak, Lyras, Alypius, and Merdem were with him as they struck out toward the front door. Once the other squads were in position, the attack began. "Kill everyone," was their order. Cameras and lights were shot out immediately. Turret guns, unusual for any ordinary country Chateau, were taken out with grenades before the automatic defense systems could activate them. Unfortunately, an alarm sounded within the building, alerting the officials to attempt their escape. Brenard relished the peace of mind that washed away his painful contemplations as he forcefully kicked down the first door with his squadmates beside him. Battle was the only real relief.