by Warhammer
It was only when the first cities fell that things began to change. An army conquers, an administration rules. From the outset, the Emperor’s intentions were plain – to return to the methods of the past, to impose the law, to banish superstition and religion, to usher in a new age of discovery. The Imperium’s subjects first numbered in their thousands, then their hundreds of thousands, then their millions. Not even the mightiest of warlords could have ruled over so many unaided.
So, to begin with, there were the Magisters Temporal, the rulers of provinces, tasked with ensuring taxation and security once the armies had rolled on to new conquest. These were soon supplemented by regional Lords Civilian, who assumed responsibility for the expanding clusters of provinces. For a period, almost seventy years, this system creaked along, only ever barely coping with the many demands of a growing populace. There were food riots in Asia-Majoris, currency runs in the Yndonesic Bloc, and a continual festering sore of intermittent unrest and sedition everywhere else. The Emperor was at war the whole time, or secreted away on His many scientific programmes, and so could not be spared for every petty dispute and uprising.
Once the Palace had been constructed in outline and the capital of the Imperium settled in Himalazia, more lasting roots could be set down. Standards of governance drawn up, so it was said, by Malcador, were given form as part of the initial precepts of the Lex Pacifica. The Lords Civilian became the second tier of command, overseen by four ‘High’ Lords Civilian, each with responsibility, not for a geographical domain, but an area of government: the Lord Commander Militant of the Imperial Armies, the Master of the Administratum, the Provost Marshal of the Divisio Arbites and the Chancellor of the Estate Imperium. It was unknown at that stage, even by the individuals in question, whether such an arrangement would last, or if it would be swept away or modified by the tides of change, but for the time being, the highest tier of authority below the Emperor’s direct rule had been established.
Some ancient patterns were not adopted. There was never a democratic mandate, for the world was too perilous to allow the masses to sway the direction of travel. This was always a dictatorship, headed by a single individual, but with the promise of benign governance at its heart. The High Lords were not figureheads, and nor were they powerless. As the Emperor swept across the old ruined continents at the head of His genhanced armies, it fell to them to allocate scarce resource, to oversee the operation of the law enforcers, to reconstruct all that had been wilfully cast aside by more slipshod generations.
As Noum Retraiva, the first Master of the Administratum, said, ‘They are the sword, we are the quill. There is an old saying, concerning the relative might of each, but I forget its precise formulation.’
They had all had tortuous paths to their high station. Retraiva had always been born to rule – he was descended from one of the old purebred families of Merica’s atomics-shattered west coast, and had fantastic wealth. It had been an easy choice for him to throw in with the new Imperium, for power always recognised power. He had brought with him the core of nine full-strength armoured regiments and whole vaults of valuable tech, and some reward had to be offered for that. He was a cynical man, with an eye for personal enrichment, but also fearsomely rigorous. Under his auspices, the capability of the Administratum grew swiftly, taking on hundreds of officials, or ‘adepts’ as the Gothic increasingly had it.
Pelops Dravagor, the Chancellor of the Estate Imperium, was Retraiva’s creature. Kli-San Weia, the Lord Commander Militant, was Malcador’s. That left the Provost Marshal, highest authority on the Lex and master of the also-rapidly-expanding Arbites network. For some reason, as a result of switchback machinations that even Kandawire found hard to recall in all their detail, the post had gone not to an old-school potentate like Retraiva, nor to a career lackey like Dravagor, but to a refugee from Afrik making a name for herself in Himalazia’s chaotic tribunals and arbitration cells.
Uwoma Kandawire, Provost Marshal. The title still felt odd, almost like a joke that had not yet had its punchline. Within her stubby fingers she held the implementation of all law, the imposition of order and the suppression of civil eruption. Expectation, perhaps, would have led to an authoritarian soul taking over, but Kandawire had never been that.
‘When the wars are done,’ she had said to Malcador, years ago, before the position had been confirmed and they were merely acquaintances, ‘history tells us the victorious army turns on the people. What shields them? Weapons? They have none. Only the civilian power. Only the law.’
‘This army upholds the law,’ Malcador had said, softly, sounding amused.
‘For now,’ Kandawire had replied, staring right into the Sigillite’s creased and parched face. ‘But the conquest will end, one day. Then what?’
‘Where did you learn this history?’
From old vid-books, taken from the burning edge of Afrik – that had been the only answer. The Sigillite could scoff at that as much as he liked. Perhaps he’d lived long enough to remember the old glories first-hand, but she knew that what her father had told her was how it was. It had always been the case, and always would be, no matter how benign and munificent this Emperor was supposed to be.
The warrior is the servant of the worker.
And so she was now on the way to the Tower again, to test the resilience of that mantra. Storm clouds had come in hard from the west over the Palace, throwing a dirty hail across the construction sites. Heavy crawlers and cranes wallowed in freezing mud-slicks, their cargoes lashed by slush-bearing winds. The storm felt like a heavy one in the making. There were often such storms, boiling out of the clear air and vomiting their fury onto the fragile shells of this brave new capital. Through it all, the construction would continue. The techwrights would batten down, set their iron-bound jawlines and keep going. One way or another, the city would carry on rising.
The flyer struggled in the gale, its viewports streaked with grey runnels. The marker lights at the landing pad were bleary and indistinct, washed out by the hammer-pattern hail.
Callix ushered her to the chamber, just as before. And just as before, the conversation was inconsequential.
‘Inclement weather,’ the adjutant had said.
‘Yes, frightfully so,’ Kandawire had replied, wondering if sarcasm registered with these people.
And then everything had melted away again, as it had done the last time, leaving the stone-hard chamber, the smooth marble, the echoing voids. No sun bathed that stone now, and the windows opened up onto a maelstrom of grey, shrouding the towers on the horizon.
‘A significant storm,’ said Valdor, greeting her with a nod.
He was entirely unchanged. His mood never seemed to alter. Here he was again, gigantic, clad in those simple robes that seemed to amplify rather than contain his extraordinary physical presence, and speaking in that scholarly, precise manner that made her want to scream.
‘We’re used to them, up here,’ Kandawire said, taking her place without being asked.
Valdor sat opposite her, his spine ramrod straight. ‘I am sure you are. This, though, will be a test.’
There seemed little need for preliminaries, this time around. It was still hard to look Valdor in the eye – something about that preternatural calmness was almost infinitely intimidating – but the parameters had already been set.
She had given the order, though. Somewhere out to the west, the convoys were moving. Did he know? Were there any limits to what he could detect? If so, predictably, he gave no sign.
‘Are you willing to begin?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I have a different topic in mind, this time. A rumour. One that may have no substantial truth to it, but it has reached my ears from more than one source.’
‘Intriguing.’
‘You spoke to me of Ushotan,’ Kandawire said. ‘You indicated that there were known issues with the primarchs of t
he Thunder Legion, as well as with the troops. I have been privy to information about a new programme, one of enhanced leadership for the Imperial armies, that was kept secret from the Council, precisely to correct this. New generals, if you will.’
‘What provenance did this… information have?’
‘Nothing solid, as you’d expect. I have never known what to make of it, and the administration of the army is hardly my concern.’ She swallowed, feeling her throat drying out. ‘But, given what you told me of the Cataegis primarchs, I wondered if there was anything the High Council ought to be made aware of.’
‘So, is that the start?’
‘Yes, if you are willing.’
‘You are mistaken, I am afraid, High Lord. There are no new generals for the Imperial Army. But I am aware, of course, of the incident that spawned these rumours. Activate your recording device, and I will tell you of it.’
Eight
-- Transcript begins--
[Thank you. When did the incident take place?]
Twenty-six years ago.
[In the Palace?]
That is classified.
[Ah.]
I have perfect recall. You know that? Nothing, since the day I awoke following my creation into this newer, higher state, is hidden from me. Names, faces, actions – they are all vivid, as real as when they first entered my life. But even if that were not so, I would remember that day with absolute clarity. It is burned on my mind like a brand. I see the events of it in my sleep. Even when waking, the sensation is never far away.
[What sensation?]
Of falling. Falling through a hole in the universe, unable to catch at the edges. Now I see you smiling again. It is the truth. I have never considered myself an artful user of language.
[Perhaps, then, from the beginning?]
I was with the Sigillite. The Lord Malcador. We were discussing the very thing you raised with me. You will recall my concerns about the Cataegis during the Maulland Sen campaign. Those concerns had not gone away during the following century of their many deployments. We had conquered much of the globe by then, with the Thunder Warriors bearing the brunt of the fighting, so do not think we were unmindful of their sacrifice. By then, it was widely believed that what could have been perfected, had been perfected. A Thunder Warrior was a truly fearsome proposition. They were armed and armoured nearly as well as the Legio Custodes. Their numbers had grown rapidly, following improvements in the gene-cultivating methods used here and at the other sites.
But it was never enough. They remained unstable. From primarch to neophyte, they would break down suddenly, or lose their minds, or simply stop responding to orders. This was not simply a matter of dry practicality for us – it was a foul thing to witness. A warrior’s blood might suddenly rebel against the arteries that carried it, or the organs might start to devour themselves, or the muscle might explode with breakneck growth. For a proud and fearless creation, that was a poor way to die.
Be aware, also, that they were quite conscious of this likely outcome. It did predictable things to their psychology. Knowing that they were limited by time and circumstance, their attitude to risk became even more cavalier. They were hard to govern from the start, but as the Imperium began to reach its secure zenith, they risked becoming an empire within an empire, and one with the old reckless dangers of the past writ large.
That was the subject I had come to speak with Malcador about. We had met many times in the past, on some occasions in the presence of the Emperor Himself, to debate the same issue. This time, however, our council was not with Him, but with the foremost practitioner of gene-arts in the entire Imperium. You will know the name, of course – I am speaking of Astarte.
[Amar Astarte.]
Quite. The three of us had gathered to consider something that had been developing, under His auspices, for a number of years. A way to bring order to the situation. We had won our empire through the application of gene-science. We all believed that its weaknesses could also be purged through the application of gene-science. Every victory achieved by our armies was matched by a victory in the underground laboratories established by the Emperor. It is important to understand how essential this programme was, and how difficult. We were working with fragments and splinters of ancient knowledge, most of it lost centuries ago and only preserved at all thanks to His tireless efforts. The complexity of it was prodigious. It required a vast expenditure of resources. Each time we recovered priceless technology during an engagement, it was brought back and pressed into service towards the ultimate goal – a solution to the problem of genetic instability.
On occasion, I am asked why it has taken so long to bring this one world to heel. I am tempted to reply that no other conqueror has had to forge his weapons while at the same time waging his war. Victory begat victory, in the end, but it was never easy.
Our meeting, that day, was required due to certain disagreements over the correct course of action at that stage. The Sigillite had been involved closely with the Emperor’s labours, and advocated a radical course, or so it seemed to me at any rate. The Lord Malcador had, and has, great faith in genecraft. Our only failing, he argued then, was that we had not gone as far as we might have done.
I felt differently. I had not learned to have the same unwavering faith in the processes we used. Mass production of genecrafted warriors is fraught with pitfalls. We in the Order are biologically altered, of course, but with us the procedure is singular and painstaking. It would never suffice to supply an entire army this way, or else the productive capacity of the Imperium would be unable to generate anything else. I was nevertheless of the view that the Custodians were, at that point, capable of overseeing the Imperium’s next phase of growth, bolstered by the far larger armies of unenhanced troops we then possessed. That was the central point of our disagreement.
[And Astarte?]
Astarte is an official. She is a genius, of course, but her craft is science, not policy. She regarded herself as a servant of the Emperor. To be more precise, I think she regarded herself as a manifestation of the Emperor’s intentions.
I should remark on this. There are those who claim, foolishly, that the Imperium is the result of one man’s efforts. An extraordinary man, to be sure, but a singular entity nonetheless. This is a profoundly dangerous assumption. As we saw for ourselves on many occasions, once the cult of the individual reaches a certain point, it becomes impossible to restrain attributions of godhood. This was always a danger, given the many demagogues in the Terran past, and so the Emperor was mindful to distribute duties among those who were skilful enough to comprehend His vision. His greatest gift, I think, is to be alive to the possibilities of those who serve Him. He takes keen delight in the intelligent human mind, and will protect those in whom He sees potential. So it is that the Imperium is the product of many souls, all working towards one vision.
Astarte is one of these. Save for the Emperor Himself, no one alive on this world understands the ways of gene-manipulation more than her. We have never been close in counsel, due to our differing functions, but I yield to no one in my admiration of her.
[What was the result of the conference?]
There was no result. It was curtailed before any conclusion could be determined.
[You hesitate. Do you wish to continue?]
This is the moment that is seared on my mind. I am considering how best to tell it.
Consider the situation. We were deep in the foundations of what is now becoming the Inner Palace. This had ever been the heart of our operations, and much of it remains tightly restricted. It is the Sigillite’s domain, in all but name – his ancient order delved that place, and populated it with their artefacts. Other chambers were carved out, in close proximity to the older caverns. In large part, this was to provide access to machinery the Sigillite had been instrumental in preserving. Otherwise, I believe symbolism played a more important role
. We were, as we saw it, reviving humanity, so we started, as we had to, close to its oldest remnants.
There were other places. Some of them, only the Emperor knew of. Some we were all familiar with. Some were close at hand, others very far away, all of them chosen according to the dimensions of the greater project. There was another location, one that I still cannot reveal to you with any precision, only that it was far from here. So far that, when the alarms began, we were a long way from where we needed to be.
I have often speculated on whether things would have been different, had I been closer. I believe Malcador feels the same way, and it is a source of some guilt for both of us that we were not there. However, the Emperor was at the very heart of it, and if He was unable to intervene successfully then I must believe that no one could have had the power to prevent what happened.
We acted as swiftly as we could. We were like a storm breaking. I summoned all that I could of the Legio, and we travelled to the forbidden centre. All thoughts of secrecy were gone: in that instant, we tore the skies apart to reach our destination. Malcador came with us, as did Astarte. I can still remember my desperation to be faster. I believe I came as close as I will ever come to knowing fear in those moments, not for myself, but for something far greater.
By the time we arrived, the entire facility was in a state of confusion. The walls were breaking, the roofs were coming down. Buttresses that had taken years to fashion were twisting out of shape under sudden loads. There were bodies everywhere – technicians, artificers, mech-workers. Even Custodians had been slain, though by means that I could not understand, for their armour was still intact.
We were soon deep underground, caked in grey dust and fighting against the darkness and the smoke. The halls were of considerable size. Tens of thousands laboured in that facility, all under a cloak of the most stringent secrecy, and the survivors were panicking, trapped in the corridors like herd animals in a slaughterhouse.