The Burden of Loyalty

by Various

  Before anyone else could reach the ambassador, there was a concerted push from within the crowd, and three electro-priests rushed her. They had thrown back their robes, in full combat fury. Their faces were twisted into masks of hatred.

  They had not come to the Stellarum Vigil to mourn, but to murder.

  They brandished electroleech staves. Vethorel ducked and threw herself to the side, passing under one priest’s swing, but she caught a glancing blow from the sparking capacitor of another. Though the contact was brief, she felt a sudden drain of her motive force.

  Her limbs became sluggish. Her body twitched. Her electoos began to go dark, diminishing her awareness and control of her being. She stumbled into a crowd that now recoiled from her.

  The attack of the electro-priests was too ferocious and coordinated. For the other adepts, this poor, defenceless ambassador’s death now seemed a certainty, and they would not throw themselves into a conflict that was already decided. If she was doomed to fall, then surely the Omnissiah had found her wanting, and her heresy was all but confirmed?

  The attack had machinic precision. Vethorel moved now with the weakness of unaugmented flesh, and the electro-priests surrounded her, crying out in their exquisite mania.

  A stave’s capacitor caught her in the ribs, spreading a cold darkness through her torso and into her extremities. It felt like shutting down, like she was being disconnected in the most primal, absolute fashion.

  She fell to her knees. She barely managed to raise her head, and saw Gerantor finally striding towards her. The human half of his face was as impassive as the metallic one – there was no sign of pleasure or even satisfaction in his expression. He was a faithful servant driven by what he saw as a grim duty.

  ‘Zagreus Kane is not worthy to be our Fabricator General,’ Gerantor proclaimed. ‘In executing this puppet emmissary, we reject his Terran-given authority. We act now for the salvation of the Mech–’

  A las-blast caught him in the head, silencing him. It scorched a trench through the metal of his skull, which sparked and smoked as he wheeled away from Vethorel. More las stitched a crossfire above her, striking the electro-priests and Magos Passax too, pattering from her thick armour plates.

  Vethorel dragged herself forwards. The rest of the adepts were fleeing from the conflict, not even wishing to witness the outcome. She found the strength to rise to her feet. There were other assassins in the crowd, a second wave that now tried to join the first, but found themselves under attack.

  Not from loyal Mechanicum protectors, but the uniformed officers of the Collegia Titanica.

  ‘Legio Ignatum, drive them back!’

  There were four princeps, each flanked by two moderati wielding lascarbines. The groups came into the crowd from two different directions, their attacks well ordered and implacable. They fought here as they did when they controlled their Battle Titans – in her delirium, Vethorel fancied she could almost see the spirits of the God-Machines towering over them, phantasmic auras walking to crush a new insurrection.

  In the growing chaos of the struggle on the ramparts, Passax closed with Vethorel again, her voice now a machine snarl. ‘The Mech­anicum will be preserved.’

  She seized Vethorel with both of her massive arms, mechadendrites lashing around the ambassador’s neck and chest. Vethorel couldn’t move.

  Vethorel had told Malcador that she and Kane were prepared for the consequences of her actions in the Council. These were the consequences. Her death would only be the first. Passax snapped out a tool-appendage from between her shoulders. Its tip was an adamantine drill. The bit spun before Vethorel’s eyes with murderous intent.

  Plasma blasts struck Passax in her armoured flanks and back. Her voice box let out a sickening electronic squeal. Flames burst from her thorax, and her hands spasmed open.

  Vethorel dropped heavily to the ground while the dying magos slumped in on herself.

  Passax did not fall. Instead, she became a heap of smouldering metal. Smoke enveloped the broken shape, her limbs folded together as if in prayer.

  Vethorel managed to stand, and so she was upright when the princeps reached her. Bassanius and Tevera stood with their plasma pistols ready, close enough to support her if he stumbled, but keeping a respectful distance.

  ‘I... I am in your debt,’ she managed. ‘So is Mars.’

  Her soul felt more drained than her body. The adepts of the Mechanicum had drawn each other’s blood again. The priests who lay dead had believed in the righteousness of their actions. Now even the faithful had turned upon each other.

  This had to stop. By the Omnissiah, this had to stop.

  Princeps Tevera helped her forwards. Bassanius of Ignatum looked as sick at heart as Vethorel felt. ‘There is no debt, here,’ he assured her. ‘We did what had to be done.’

  Tevera gave a weak smile. ‘Just as you have of late, ambassador.’

  Vethorel glanced at the bodies littering the Stellarum Vigil, and cursed the brutal costs of her recent decisions. ‘You agree with my proposition, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bassanius replied. ‘After hearing you plead your case, and after giving it due thought. There are risks for the independence of Mars, true – but if there is no Imperium left to speak of, what then?’

  ‘Bring your proposition before the Council again…’ said Tevera, her lungs rasping. ‘It will pass this time. We will ensure… that it does.’

  Vethorel’s voice cracked. ‘Passing it will involve more conflict. More loyal bloodshed.’

  Bassanius exhaled slowly, gravely.

  ‘We know. You did not have the leverage you needed at the Council today. Now you will have it.’

  The ambassador shook her head. ‘The High Lords will veto any action they deem to be premature. The Imperium is at war. They have that power.’

  ‘They cannot veto the Titan Legions. We have no voice in the Chamber.’

  ‘Then you understand how far we might have to go. You understand the lines we may have to cross to secure Mars’ future.’

  Tevera nodded. ‘We do.’

  ‘Then that is well.’

  The words were a lie. Nothing was well. Especially not what Vethorel guessed the three of them were about to do.

  All of the gathered princeps were present at the next session of the Council, except for Bassanius, who had other matters to attend. They sat in a long row in one of the lowest tiers with Vethorel, by special arrangement of Fabricator General Kane.

  They watched in silence, as still as if they were standing at attention, while the Council circled laboriously towards the consideration of their fate.

  Predictably, Harr Rantal condemned the battle on the Stellarum Vigil.

  ‘While the attempt on Ambassador Vethorel’s life was a despicable and cowardly act, it is apparent that the exiles from Mars have brought their internal conflict with them, inside the walls of the Imperial Palace itself. This is beyond unacceptable.’

  ‘Our internal conflict?’ Vethorel responded.

  ‘Wasn’t that your civil war being fought last night?’

  ‘If you truly think the war is only Martian, then your ignorance is the true danger to Terra.’

  There were murmurs and snickers from the assembled delegates. Even Simion Pentasian smiled wryly as Rantal sank back into his chair.

  ‘This is a distraction,’ he announced, cutting without ceremony to what many saw as the true issue. ‘What must be decided is the disposition of the Collegia Titanica forces.’

  Vethorel was defiant. ‘And who will decide that? The honourable High Lords of Terra? By what right, and under what authority? Under the provisions of the Treaty of Olympus, the Titan Legions have never acted under orders from this Council, but voluntarily acceded to its many requests. If the Council of Terra will not give Mars the right to decide its own destiny, how long do you think Terra can stand against t
he Warmaster without the Mechanicum’s assistance?’

  She gestured to the High Lords.

  ‘And how long will you be allowed to behave as if you command the mighty Titans yourselves?’

  ‘Your implied threats do your cause no good,’ Rantal spat. ‘Furthermore, they ignore the realities of our situation – Mars has no voice here, because Mars belongs to the traitors!’

  There was uproar in the tiers of the Chamber. Tevera and Vethorel exchanged a weary glance. Pentasian rose from his seat. ‘Once more, we are losing ourselves in recriminations and insults rather than acting for the good of the Imperium. There is one point upon which I will agree with Ambassador Vethorel. The current situation regarding the chain of command is not tenable.’

  Rantal was startled. ‘Surely you don’t seek to endorse the creation of their new Adeptus?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely not. Given that Mars is currently lost to us, I believe we must all accept the fact that the Treaty signed between Terra and the Mechanicum cannot be held valid. All of its provisions are nullified. We must act to formalise a new accord and a central authority. Yes, the Collegia Titanica needs a clear chain of command – and that chain should begin here, in the Council of Terra.’

  ‘No!’ Vethorel cried. ‘You cannot dictate that!’

  She had had enough. She had made one last effort to reason with the Council, but it was pointless. Pentasian and Rantal were lining up to pick over the carcass of the Mechanicum before it was even dead, and the other High Lords were following their lead. She looked to Tevera again, and nodded. It was time.

  Rantal sat up straighter, relishing the meal he imagined was to come.

  ‘Ambassador Vethorel,’ he addressed her, ‘as representative of the Mechanicum adepts present on Terra, you will–’

  The doors to the Chamber flew open. His treads grinding against the polished marble floor, Zagreus Kane entered the political arena.

  His arms were folded, their mechanical hands held open. He had come without weapons, as was the law, yet his very being was the embodiment of machinic force. His existence was a threat, and Vethorel saw with even greater clarity why he had chosen not to be part of the deliberations until now.

  His mere presence precipitated crisis.

  The Collegia Titanica representatives stood as one. Vethorel watched the jolt of realisation hit the Chamber, the High Lords at the debating table in particular. They were suddenly aware that there was a concerted military force in the midst of their Council session, unarmed but still intimidating.

  At the head of the table, Malcador the Sigillite clambered painfully to his feet, and planted his staff squarely on the floor. He called out to Kane as his clanking form reached the dais.

  ‘Think very carefully about your next actions, Zagreus.’

  ‘I am taking none,’ the Fabricator General respondly flatly. He did not mount the platform, but remained where he was, observer and observed. Tevera turned in her exoskeletal frame to address the tiers above them.

  ‘I am Warmonger Princeps Tevera of the Legio Agravaides. We have come… to be heard. So hear our voices now, and take heed. If the formation of the Adeptus Mechanicus is not approved in this session… then the Collegia Titanica will know where it stands, and we will no longer be the puppets… of the Council of Terra. To your eternal shame, you have abandoned sacred Mars, home world of my legio. Now you demand that my comrades… forsake their worlds too, to burn undefended beneath the assaults of the traitors. If there is no Adeptus for Mars… there will be no Titans for the Throneworld. We will abandon the Solar War, and return… to our own fiefdoms immediately.’

  The Chamber erupted in roars of outrage and condemnation. Council members and observers alike shouted over each other. The noise washed over Vethorel. She and Kane and the princeps stood in silence, unmoving rocks in the sea of anger.

  You have heard us now, Vethorel thought. But will you listen?

  She guessed not. Harr Rantal leapt to his feet. He did not seem so comfortable in confronting the imposing form of the Fabricator General at the edge of the dais, and so he pointed an accusing finger at Vethorel instead.

  ‘This is who you are!’ he practically screamed. ‘This is treachery! A coup! I will see you executed for this!’

  ‘This is no coup. It is the resolution of an equation,’ she replied. ‘We understand the necessity of an Adeptus Mechanicus. If you do not, then you must be shown it in terms you can comprehend. The Binary Succession must be ended.’

  Rantal turned to his fellow High Lords. ‘Oh, I tire of this! Let me call in the arbitrators. I will have the Martians arrested, and tried for their crimes against the Throne.’

  The uproar grew louder. Most of the voices cried their approval, but others urged caution, leniency, time to consider all options. They were the ones who saw the line that was about to be crossed: the loyal leader of the Cult Mechanicum and many senior princeps of the Collegia Titanica in chains would be a disaster for Imperial morale across the galaxy.

  At last, Vethorel knew, some of them were beginning to see the danger.

  But not enough, and now it was too late.

  A deep, reverberating impact shook the floor of the chamber, swaying the long lumen-sconces hanging from the dome high above. Vethorel and the Titan officers noted it well, but did not react.

  Another impact, stronger this time. Strong enough to be felt in the shudder of the walls.

  The Council delegates in the upper tiers began to glance around at one another in confusion, even as a further tremor shook masonry dust from the ceiling.

  Then Mars’ greatest voice was heard on Terra.

  The blast of the war-horn cut through the din of the Chamber, and all who heard it fell silent. The sound came from far away, but it rattled the dome all the same. The bellow was deep yet piercing, redolent of the greatest majesty of war. Another tremor followed it a few moments later.

  They were drawing nearer.

  Pentasian’s eyes grew wide. ‘What is happening?’ he spluttered. ‘Ambassador?’

  ‘The Imperator Magnificum Incendius of the Legio Ignatum walks towards us.’

  Vethorel’s words were a simple statement of fact. Their implication, though, was enormous. Rantal stared at her in horror. The war-horn sounded again, louder, nearer, and a moment of shocked quiet descended over the Chamber. Thousands were holding their breath at once, listening to the approach of the God-Machine.

  One of the most colossal engines of war ever built walked with ominous purpose towards the political heart of the Imperium. It had stepped over the defences wrought to protect the Master of Mankind as if they were not there, and now strode down the wide avenues of the Outer Palace, driving crowds of fleeing citizens before it.

  Its huge weapon arms cycled up – rotary barrels the length of mag-lev trains, plasma accelerators that could drive a starship. The Titan’s roar was so loud, it seemed as though that alone could bring the Palace tumbling down.

  Emplacement guns were brought awkwardly to bear, having only been intended to fire outwards from the walls. The Custodian Guard and Imperial Auxilia garrisons tried to outflank it, but this was just one single engine of the Collegia Titanica, and there was currently nothing within a hundred kilometres that could halt its relentless advance.

  Panic took hold of the Council Chamber. There were no windows. No one could see what was coming, yet the sound was enough. Every­one present knew of the holocaust that an Imperator Titan could unleash upon its foes.

  Its voice was a howl to shatter the heavens. The end was coming.

  There was no escape, and no recourse.

  Pentasian scrambled towards Vethorel. ‘Stop this! You are commanded to stop!’

  She stood her ground.

  ‘Who commands us?’ she asked, timing her words to come between the blasts of the war-horn. ‘Who commands the Mechanicum? Who commands
the Titans? The Binary Succession is the product both of poor Martian logic and frightful Terran ignorance, and it may prove the death of us all.’

  The beat of the Titan’s steps were the rhythm of approaching doom.

  Vethorel looked at Malcador. The Sigillite was watching her steadily. His face was shadowed, expressionless. He said nothing. He was letting the situation play itself out. Was he so confident there were lines that the Mechanicum and the Collegia Titanica would not cross, Vethorel wondered? Or had they already been left far behind?

  The ambassador and the princeps had committed themselves irrevocably. The consequences of this day would be unavoidable. She felt the Sigillite judging her – waiting to see if, once and for all, she was prepared for what she had set in motion.

  Or maybe you approve, Vethorel thought. Maybe you want this too.

  The blast of the horn overwhelmed the screams in the Chamber. People were scrambling over each other to reach the exits from the tiers, fleeing what could not be escaped, but the sound froze them in mid-flight. It was so close, it seemed to come from inside the dome, and all around them, all at once.

  In the moment of silence that followed, Vethorel spoke again.

  ‘The Binary Succession must be resolved. The Adeptus Mechanicus is the resolution. There can only be zero or one. There cannot be both. Otherwise, there is uncertainty. With uncertainty, can there ever truly be loyalty?’

  She paused.

  ‘And if there is no loyalty...?’

  The Titan’s battle cry came one last time. One more step, and it seemed as though Magnificum Incendius would crush the dome beneath its immense, armoured foot.

  Rantal threw up his hands. ‘Enough!’

  He stumbled back to the table, and sank down into his chair.

  ‘Enough...’

  The other High Lords, some of them partway towards the Chamber exits, nodded their agreement, looking shrunken and small beside the other men and women of the Council.

  Vethorel nodded to Tevera, who spoke into her vox-bead.

  ‘Princeps Bassanius, stand down.’

  Magnificum Incendius halted. The tremors ceased.